


Dominion

by Alethia



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: "Accuracy" Being a Relative Term, Alliances, Alternate Universe - Future, Choices, F/M, Forming Camelot, Guinevere and Lancelot Really Dislike Each Other, M/M, Manipulation, Merlin Rules All, Multi, POV Multiple, Politics, Some Attempt at Historical Accuracy, Squabbling, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesomes Solve All Problems, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-04
Updated: 2005-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:43:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Building something great rarely left room for niceties. Building something meant to last rarely left room for anything else.</p>
<p>Lancelot offered what he’d always wanted, an ache he’d carried silently buried for so long he didn’t know how to react to its sudden blooming for all to see.</p>
<p>Guinevere offered a land and a people and a purpose. Arthur fully admitted the chance to build something great and lasting and meaningful pulled at him. A place, a land, where all people would be treated as they ought. Another chance at the way things should be, creating something by <i>his</i> hand, at his will. Something more perfect than even Rome in all its glory could offer.</p>
<p>Either, or. A path he’d not dared imagine or a place he <i>couldn’t</i> imagine. Visions of impossibility, both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dominion

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday gift for guede_mazaka! Set just after the movie. Lancelot and Tristan are very much alive. Scotti = Irish. Extended selected historical notes are at the end. Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/135684.html).

“I have no interest in your petty politics,” Lancelot hissed, turning on her with a glare that made most men want to run away. It didn’t seem quite as effective on this blasted woman. Just another way she irritated him, then.

“How delicate,” she sneered, face twisted into something fierce. “But you better get interested because this coalition is already on a knife’s edge. Thankfully, Merlin supports Arthur, but don’t think that couldn’t change. And if we lose it, then this is over.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“Think about it!” she cried, gesturing wildly, only the barest hint of what could be desperation to her voice. “You’ve all been killing us for years! And now you want to rule? There are more than a few who would gladly sink a knife through Arthur’s back given the opportunity. Merlin’s the only one who’s holding this together.”

She glared at him; he glared back. He silently cursed Arthur for wanting this. It was an impossible dream and now it dragged in Lancelot, against his better judgment.

“And what am I supposed to do about it?” he asked, crossing his arms and glaring at her some more. The only problem was it didn’t seem to ever work with Guinevere. Fuck her, too, for being so stubborn.

“Meet with the western tribes. Be _nice_ ,” she hissed, eyes flashing brilliant, like lightning. “Arthur needs you, but he won’t ask.”

“Thankfully you don’t have that problem.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll ask but I won’t beg. If you don’t want to help, fine. Watch as it all falls apart, smug in your superiority. But don’t forget that it’s your fault when Arthur loses that which he finally decided to want.”

She turned to go, skirts huffing for her, and Lancelot clenched his jaw in irritation. This child was really starting to aggravate him. He never should have saved her sorry ass. And it didn’t seem like his plans of holding it over her were going to work out either. Bitch.

“Wait.”

She looked back, lifted an elegant brow, patient and knowing. “Why me?” he asked, reluctant. Other people were better suited. Like Tristan. Tristan could be subtle and sneaky. The very idea of…that just made Lancelot twitch.

“Because they respect the best warriors,” she said, nodding to the area of the hill-fort allotted to their guests. “And, prick though you are, you have a reputation.” She sounded exceedingly frustrated by that, which pleased Lancelot on a wholly vindictive level that found its expression in a haughty smirk.

Really, the stupid girl deserved it.

“Fine,” he said at last, turning serious again and grating the word out. “I’ll meet with them. But don’t for a moment think it’s because of _you_.”

“No, I know exactly what motivates you,” she said, eyes flashing again, this time something darker, knowing and unforgiving. He glared back at her, letting his irritation show, making a point of the condescension. She turned away and stalked out, frame still warrior-loose under filmy material, an odd contrast.

Lancelot clenched his jaw again. This was a mess—worse than that time Tristan managed to convince him that caking himself in mud was the perfect disguise on one of their long-since-aborted tracking exercises—and he’d just plunged right in.

Just fucking perfect.

***

Lancelot’s right eye throbbed. He stalked down the halls, glaring at all who passed, scattering groups of children and thinking little of any of it.

Fuck Arthur and his fucking foolish dreams. The ‘representatives’ of the Ordovices—or whatever that band of brigands thought they were—had regaled him for _hours_ with the names of all those the Romans had killed. Apparently, a few generations earlier, the Romans had swept through their territory and almost annihilated those people.

Lancelot wondered what could possibly have stopped them.

He ruthlessly pushed open the doors and launched himself out into the open air, view of all the hills around them breathtaking if he’d been one to pay attention. He felt inordinate satisfaction at hearing the doors crash behind him. He stalked angrily out to an open field, away from prying eyes that were everywhere in that hulking tomb, and kicked at the earth in unencumbered rage.

Fuck these Britons. This was not what he’d expected to be doing, making nice with lawless bands of enraged warriors. And he couldn’t even slit their throats, though his fingers itched and swords called to him.

Thinking of them brought an idea forth and he easily slid his swords from their sheaths, attempting to clear his mind of the gruesome twist of Moridun’s mouth. Lancelot started out with the forms Arthur had attempted to teach him, working through a cut and thrust routine he’d devised himself.

The movement made him feel a bit better; he hated being cooped up in that great mass of wood and stone. Perhaps he’d gotten used to the freedom of green British hills more than he’d thought, even if they weren’t endless plains, as those still clawing at him in his memory.

He let the thought seep out of him, occupying himself in ever more complicated rhythms, focusing on his control and execution, the sing of the blades in his hands easing something inside.

Someone cleared his throat from behind and Lancelot whirled easily, already knowing the only one who would disturb him after his angry exit.

“I heard the meeting went well.” Mild in a way only Arthur could do and not set Lancelot off.

Not that that stopped him.

“Really?” he spat. “What gave it away?” 

“You rarely practice unless angry or compelled. Usually both.”

“I never needed to practice; killing Woads took care of that for me. Can’t do that these days, can I?” he asked, lowering his blades, frustration creeping back over him, like the encroaching darkness. Small intervals of light, the memory of which so fully crowded out by unimaginable dark. 

Just like fucking Britain. 

Arthur broke eye contact and looked away, that move stunning Lancelot out of his mood more than anything else. He sighed, sheathing his blades and for the first time _feeling_ the effect of that unexpected movement. 

Less soothing than he thought, perhaps.

Lancelot’s appearance in front of him startled Arthur, drew his attention. Though he stopped further away than he normally would. Arthur had been—distant and cold recently. Lancelot was no longer wholly assured of his welcome.

“No, the meeting did not go well,” he stated flatly, running a hand through his hair in what he knew was a telling gesture. He winced at the unruliness there. “Moridun and his cronies seemed more interested in reciting lists of their dead than talking about Saxons or uniting for the common good.” He added a bit of mockery to the last, just because it satisfied him.

Arthur ignored it, the placating son of a whore. “Several people saw you storm off. I wanted to make sure you didn’t kill anyone, accidentally or otherwise.”

That dull blow fell on Lancelot unresisting and he smiled a bitter thing to let Arthur know it. “If you don’t trust me not to fall into idiocy then you better start using Galahad in these meetings. At least then you’d be assured of it.”

His stricken look satisfied something primal in Lancelot, something that wanted to know he could still land a blow with some amount of force.

“Lancelot, that wasn’t what I—that’s not—” He stopped, recovered his words. Unusual for Arthur to stumble so. “You have my full confidence, of course.”

“Of course,” he mocked. “Which is why you haven’t deigned to stay in a room with me alone for at least a month. It really heartens one’s belief in your faith. If you’re even capable of that anymore.”

Arthur searched his eyes for a moment, before again looking away, green stained with some kind of regret that Lancelot didn’t know. And that was saying something.

“It wasn’t my intention for you to think that,” Arthur said, obviously forcing himself to meet Lancelot’s gaze. “I’m sorry, my friend. I wouldn’t had I known.”

Lancelot sighed and hated himself for the regret he felt. Not that he could do anything else in the face of such sincerity. Fuck Arthur for getting to him so.

“If you don’t want me here tell me to go.” He would, too, if Arthur said the words. Better to leave and remove the source of all this grief than stay and watch as Arthur constructed a happy family with that prissy little bitch.

“I would never,” Arthur breathed, strong hand gripping Lancelot’s shoulder, eyes now deep and intense, like the darkest of forests, but burning hot into Lancelot. “That is the last thing I want.”

Lancelot nodded, gripping Arthur’s hand on his shoulder and squeezing meaningfully. “Then I stay. For as long as you want me.”

“For all my days,” Arthur said, almost absently, eyes defocusing and gazing into some far off place. It startled Lancelot enough to tense and Arthur felt it, swiftly coming back to the present and smiling tightly, pulling hand and closeness away, just out of Lancelot’s reach. Always out of his reach, no matter how hard he tried.

“Arthur—”

“Come. Walk with me and tell me about the rest of the meeting. They haven’t made to leave so there must be something else they want.”

Lancelot let himself be interrupted, let Arthur sweep away that conversation, and followed the other man the distance back to the halls. He’d been doing that too often, letting Arthur off so easily, but with Merlin and Guinevere and the negotiations…Arthur was stretched so thin, even the skin covering him seemed pulled to the point of splitting open. 

Lancelot no longer knew how far he could push Arthur before he’d break. And without his faith or Rome—Lancelot had no idea what would happen then. Every instinct twitched, screaming at him to push it, sink a little deeper into Arthur. Only the recently acquired lines around Arthur’s mouth were able to crush that almost overwhelming urge.

Besides, there would be time enough to uncover Arthur’s meaning. If these fucking meetings didn’t kill him first.

***

“You just want to rule Britain like your empire never did. Such like a Roman. Finally come to finish the job,” Mavori sneered, fiery contempt roiling in his eyes. 

Lancelot’s hands clenched, eager for a blade. More than one. He’d like nothing more that to sink cold metal deep into his chest, choke off the bleating. He didn’t care what problem the Brigantes had with them; Mavori was an ass enough to incite any man to indiscriminate slaughter.

Arthur’s firmed jaw and half-look stayed Lancelot. Barely. And when had he gotten predictable enough for _Arthur_ to anticipate him? It was just another sore on top of an already chafed situation.

“The blood of this land flows through my veins. I wish nothing more than to see Britain united, one people, free.”

“The blood of those Britons you and yours have spilled stains you, Roman. And now you want us to accept these—” he gestured at Lancelot with angry, halting movements. Tension so apparent it was a wonder he hadn’t hurt himself with it. Not that Lancelot would mind. “These mongrels as protectors of our land? After they’ve done so much to destroy it? You’re daft.”

He could practically hear Arthur’s jaw clench further, angry rustle of vermillion cape all the noticeable indication of that which boiled beneath the surface.

“My knights have spilled no blood but of those who struck first. Defending themselves is a right owned by them and by _all_ men. Their actions were _righteous_.”

“Not to mention superior,” Lancelot interjected lazily, eyes drifting to and from the small party of men without care. He knew it got them hotter; he could see it in the narrowing of eyes, though they thought he didn’t watch. “Bitterness in the face of more accomplished fighters is so dull. No wonder no one’s been able to unite this damn island.”

A razor-sharp glance told Lancelot that Arthur didn’t appreciate that. Well, too fucking bad. Arthur was the one who insisted Lancelot attend these useless, interminable meetings in the first place.

“So speaks Arthur’s whore. How you can even show your face to real men is a mystery,” Mavori spat, stepping forward, bare lacings of restraint fraying ever more. The sight of Arthur’s hands at the edge of his vision, white with rage, muted the stinging retort on his tongue. Lancelot narrowed his eyes, but showed no other outward signs of his displeasure.

Mavori was an idiot who didn’t realize the worth of what he was carelessly throwing away and further, he knew nothing of what he spoke. Though the thought that it would displease him less had there been any truth to the man’s words left a bitter tang on Lancelot’s tongue.

“ _Enough_ ,” Arthur said, stilling all movement, stealing his breath. When he was like this—raw power bursting around cracks in his cloak of control—Lancelot couldn’t see how anyone could disobey him. “Arguing won’t help anyone. Mavori, take your men and confer. I want to know precisely to what you object. We’ll meet again tomorrow at midday. Until then, you are our guests.” Arthur paused, considering his words. “And I would hate for anything to jeopardize the rules of that hospitality,” he finished, edge to his words that hit their leader with a stinging burn.

Mavori bowed. Slightly. “We shall take our leave.” And with that he swept out of the room, followed by murmuring lackeys, all still glaring at Lancelot. He injected even more insolence into his posture and got a residual sneer for the effort.

Good. Bastards deserved it. 

Arthur sighed, visibly calming, finding a chair and sitting as if far older than his years. He looked at Lancelot, watched as he straightened and moved to sit next to Arthur. 

“Lancelot.”

“Arthur.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Really? I thought the superior comment went over quite brilliantly, myself. I can’t imagine why they didn’t fall down and proclaim unfailing loyalty on the spot.”

An ironic twist of lips passed over Arthur, fleeing quickly as the mist when confronted by the sun. “Your sarcasm rankles.”

Lancelot snorted. “And I feel very badly about that.”

Arthur sighed again and rubbed a weary hand across his brow. Lancelot reached out, laying a comforting hand on Arthur’s shoulder, squeezing some of his strength back into the other man.

Arthur smiled an uncertainty that was all-too-frequent, accepting the gesture for what it was. “Foolishly I thought the peace would be easier.”

Lancelot was grim. “When has peace ever been easy?”

***

She found him hunched over a map, fists clenched against the wood of the table, heedless of more angry red scrapes to add to his collection. He was—strained. Guinevere could see it and she had known him only a short time. Arthur was idealistic and true governing left so little room for that.

Briefly, she felt sorry that he’d been brought into this mess. He’d envisioned a very different life-path for himself but by his honor had been duty-bound to stay.

Guinevere shook the thought off. He was what Britain needed, even if he didn’t believe it himself, and his sacrifice would make better the lives of all her people. That was the goal on which to keep her focus.

“It’s late,” she said lowly, walking in and stopping to look at the map. The tribal provinces were demarcated and Arthur had placed old Roman coins to signify those that were with them.

The North was turning into a problem.

Guinevere gritted her teeth at those mud-dwelling traitorous bastards. She would have to speak with Merlin, see about shoring up support. It didn’t help that the tribes seemed more inclined to argue about age-old territorial disputes than do anything about the Saxons.

Maybe if she brought up the ever-lingering issue of the Scotti…

“It is the only time I have peace enough to think,” he answered after a moment of silence, briefly glancing at her before looking back to the map. There was a lot of empty territory there, areas they needed. The negotiations were—trying. 

“The Iceni have joined. That’s good news.” Falsely trying to inject cheer into the statement and even she winced at the grind of her voice.

“They’re in the direct path of the Saxon invasions and they’re already feeling the ambitions of the settlers amongst them. They have the most to gain.”

“It would be naïve to think that the tribes aren’t motivated by their self-interest. Indeed, that may be what holds this together.”

“True,” he said, finally looking over at her, eyes earnest but pained, burning through her like ice. “But I’m not inclined to patch together a coalition only to have it dissolve the moment things settle down.”

She nodded, looking away, away from those eyes that told too much, asked too much; he did have a good point. “But that is where we are. So we use their fear and bind them to us as best we can in the meantime. I, for one, am unwilling to turn down such opportunities, even if they are fleeting.”

“The pragmatic approach to unification,” he murmured, causing her took again look up. The edges of his mouth lifted a bit, like she’d said something that greatly amused him though he had energy only for that small measure of enjoyment. “You so remind me of—”

Her world turned cold again, that flat chill that allowed for nothing, her spine stiffening. Arthur hardly had to finish; she knew that look well enough. “Yes, well, political expediency must sometimes be employed and I refuse to apologize for it.”

“I never asked for an apology,” he said, gently, something burning and conflicted in his eyes.

She turned away, looking back to the map, a safe focus of her attention. “You meet with the leaders of the Atrebates tomorrow, then?”

“Yes. They arrived yesterday and have been resting.”

Guinevere regained herself with the self-control of one used to pulling herself back from the brink, the smallest of things but one of which she could be sure. “You should rest. They will take even an appearance of weakness and use it to their advantage.”

He nodded, meditatively. “Staring at this map certainly hasn’t accomplished anything.” Though he didn’t look like he believed it himself, Guinevere took it as a good sign that he was at least listening to her advice.

She wondered at the possibility of going with; Merlin had been nagging at her over the subject of a marriage. It would strengthen their position even if most of the delegations took it as assured. 

Somehow, she had a feeling Merlin had much to do with that.

Before she could broach the subject Arthur spoke again: “You should rest as well.” His tone was back to that of polite but distant acquaintance and Guinevere’s jaw clenched at it. That sealed that question, but opened the door to a larger.

Arthur hadn’t touched her since that night, back before Badon Hill. Neither had he said anything about it. But he couldn’t be ignorant of what the delegations expected. The whole situation was more troublesome than it should have been and all because of the man lurking in the shadows of Arthur’s eyes. 

Lancelot was ruining everything, that jackass, and he knew it. The looks he’d been sending her way—starting at Badon—were evidence enough of that.

The truly infuriating part was that she could do naught about any of it. Arthur wouldn’t be toyed with and Guinevere could do nothing to separate the two of them beyond what they could themselves do. They were stuck in the same old dance—if the stories and their implications were anything by which to judge—and she feared it had far more dire consequences than the two men believed. 

And under that lay the niggling thought that Guinevere wasn’t treated so indifferently very often. And she wasn’t used to being so shortly denied what she wanted.

“Yes. Of course,” she answered, purposefully curt. If he would treat her as anyone else, she would certainly let him know she didn’t like it. “Good evening, my lord.”

With a last frosty glance she swept out of the hall, letting her skirts rustle indignantly. She couldn’t help but look back at the closing doors, only to see Arthur once again bent over the map, slumped and weary, before heavy wood shut her out.

***

The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, made his eyes water, ignored in the heat and rush of the thrust, counter-thrust, kill dance. His body glided through the carnage, totally under his own power, drunk on the pleasure of the simplicity of it all. Life and death, black and white, this was something that could be broken down and swallowed easily.

Or so he told himself.

From far away he heard Lancelot, yell piercing the clamor around him, calling Arthur’s attention forth, leaping to save Guinevere in a dangerous maneuver.

Arthur thrust and cut absently, watching Lancelot engage, small trickle of pride at how confidently he moved, injecting grace into so much destruction.

Suddenly thrown off, unbalanced, giving the other time to dip down and—

It was barely a sound yet it screamed its way to Arthur’s hearing, sick slide of something _mortal_ , no matter that Lancelot got his revenge when he was falling, that sound but a hollow thud in earth soft with blood.

Pain in his chest fierce and wrenching and Arthur desperately tried to fight his way there, but they moved in on him so _fast_ and he didn’t have time, one after the other. Only the briefest of flashes between the hordes, Guinevere leaning down, such stillness as was _never_ there.

And the whole world went dark, hard, agony ripping into him and burning down the shadows of all he could have built.

Then he was up, panting in his bed, blankets damp with his sweat and clinging like enemies dead more than a month. Arthur tossed them off anyway, grateful for the coolness in the air, leaning over his knees and _aching_. Like he always did.

Every time he dreamed of the same grisly scene.

Arthur pulled on something quickly, stuffed feet into unwilling boots, dragging himself out of his chambers. Cold and empty, they were never the comfort he’d expected. Could have had company, but he’d already done damage enough there, damage he didn’t even know how to _start_ addressing.

Lancelot—Arthur didn’t even want to shy in that direction.

The corridors were silent at night. Cold, but that was expected. It was the silent part he cared for—where even the screaming in his head seemed to fade—and it was a relief at these times, to be able to wander them freely without the constant buzz of so many people talking, whispering, _wanting_. Without anyone wondering why their leader was stalking the halls, looking shaken and worn like Arthur knew he did.

Well, Tristan might wonder but he never asked and for that Arthur was very grateful.

The soft give of a body snapped his attention back to his surroundings and Arthur had grabbed hold of shoulders before he’d consciously thought of it. Winced at his mistake.

“Arthur. What are you doing awake? And looking half dead?” Lancelot hissed, looking closer, squeezing Arthur’s arm with no little force. He glanced around, tugging at Arthur when he didn’t answer. “Come on.”

Pulled—somewhere, and it was too much for him to wonder where. Eventually they settled in…a room and Lancelot looked at him as though he’d committed some unholy crime.

Not today, anyway.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Well what?” Arthur asked, tired but now glad he’d run into Lancelot. Because there was no gaping hole in his chest, no blood, and it was all fading back, back to that place where it could only torture him when he closed his eyes, a shockingly effective mode of punishment.

But who was doing the punishing…

“Is there trouble?” Lancelot asked, looking like he’d take up arms that moment, wild-eyed and worried. 

Yes, Lancelot was worried. That was it.

“No, I’m—I’m sorry. Sleep eludes me tonight.”

“So you thought you’d wander the halls half-dressed and looking like your brother died?” He paused, running a slowly calming hand through sleep-shocked curls, air of distracted frenzy still about him. “That’s such a good idea I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself. Especially when we have ‘guests.’”

Arthur shrugged and tried not to focus on Lancelot, his hair, or what he was and was not wearing. “No one’s ever seen me before. I think the drink keeps them from noticing.”

“You’ve done this before?” Lancelot asked, strangled, finally seeming to settle on clenching that uncertain hand. “Honestly, just when I was starting to think you really are what they all say. Well, at least we know even you are capable of stupidity.”

Arthur was about to answer when Lancelot cut him off with his hand over Arthur’s mouth, mischievous grin on his lips. “Though I will say it’s a pretty effective way of getting into my chambers,” he said, joke falling flat at the look in his eyes.

Arthur removed Lancelot’s hand.

“I’m disturbing you. I should leave you be.”

“Not at all. It’s not every night one is visited by a king.”

“Not a king.”

“Not yet.”

Arthur sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He wasn’t up to arguing with Lancelot tonight and they didn’t seem capable of much else these days. It was arguing or sinking into the depths of forbidden images—twisting limbs and silken skin and depths of feeling far beyond what would seem possible. Even now it was an effort not to reach out, to touch, to find out if those _other_ thoughts held any truth.

“What’s the matter, Arthur? Big bed too lonely for you? I can think of at least one person who’d gladly warm it.” Deliberate pause and Arthur wondered if he were baiting him into those forbidden images, _pushing_ — “You did give her quite the taste, if the Roman gossip was to be believed.”

“And that’s all the taste she got,” he said gruffly, annoyed at Lancelot’s implication, trying to distract himself with it, feeling himself eagerly wrap around the feeling and bidding unwanted images away.

Lancelot stilled, eyes going flinty, calculating. “Really.”

“Really,” Arthur mimicked, scorn diffusing into the low light of his room. A very nice room, actually. They all were. A fair bit better than their quarters in the garrison, at least. It only dully occurred to him he’d never been in here.

With the way Lancelot looked at him, that was probably a good thing.

“Arthur…”

“Release me.” Lancelot stilled, confusion flashing momentarily, before he slowly looked at his hand like he didn’t know it was there, still curled around Arthur’s arm and bruising, marks pressed into his skin like Lancelot tried in every way to make permanent. A shame he didn’t seem to realize he already had, and that Arthur still didn’t know how to feel about it. 

He was released on a harsh exhale, Lancelot stepping back like it was an effort. Or like he didn’t quite want to let go.

Arthur left Lancelot there, tense and watching with ever-lingering unease and something…else. He returned to the relative safety of his own rooms. Even nighttime haunts were preferable to the torture of such temptation, the knowledge that what he’d wanted had once been possible, only now to slip even further away under the weight of what he soon must do.

***

“In honor of your reign and commemorating your ascendance to the throne, I offer you a tribute: my daughter, Nonnita, to take as your second wife.”

The breath left Arthur’s body, transforming him into a heated roil. Arthur dimly noted Lancelot’s choked cough from behind him, and he had enough presence of mind to be annoyed by the other man’s amusement. There was no way to reject the gift without insulting Berice and thereby rejecting the Atrebates themselves.

But his morality rebelled; though she was a woman, no one had the right to give her as a gift and Arthur had made a point of not taking slaves in his new city. This had the sour taste of slavery to it with the added insult of a yoke of possible affection lost.

The poor girl.

His thoughts circled back to the problem and the utter lack of a solution.

Arthur sighed. “Berice, I thank you for the generous offer…” He didn’t know where to go after that. Such a poor ruler he made.

Lancelot cleared his throat and only Arthur would have recognized the timbre of strained mirth that colored Lancelot’s words: “May it please, my lord?” Arthur glanced over, nodding, a plea in his eyes.

“The Queen…has no ladies. Alas, with all the turmoil she has not had time. Perhaps the girl would best serve you there, assisting such a noble woman as our Guinevere.” Only the barest hint of mockery was present, though Arthur noted it still.

He sent Lancelot a grateful look before turning to Berice to gauge reaction. Lancelot tied that up neatly, annoyingly so. If Berice disapproved it could be taken upon by Lancelot, not that Arthur would want him to do so, though he undoubtedly would. These damned politics. It was all so touchy. Running a garrison had been easier, though probably treacherous in more immediate ways.

Arthur mentally scoffed at that; few would ever consider it easy holding such a shaky force together, under constant threat of mutiny or worse. But there it was, all the same.

Berice, thankfully, looked just as eager, almost as if he hadn’t wanted to make the offer. “Yes, of course, my lord. We cannot allow the lady to be ill cared for. I shall send for my daughter at once.”

And it was still a form of bondage, true, but it did not injure the heart and did not bind the girl to Arthur forever. It was the best that could be done under the circumstances and Arthur knew he had to start contenting himself with that.

Though as he left the hall he could not help the metallic tang of failure that coated his tongue.

***

“Guinevere! Guinevere!”

The shouts had her turning into a defensive crouch before she even thought of it. A Woad ran up—one of the northern tribes, he looked to be—panting, winded, but no other commotion seemed to touch the grounds. She relaxed. Slightly.

“Yes?” Disinterest. This had better not be yet _another_ problem. She was quickly tiring of everything going completely wrong.

Perhaps she and Lancelot could set up some sparring session, then. That would satisfy her in so many different ways.

“There’s—there’s someone here for Arthur. Arthur’s busy and he won’t accept that. He’s yelling about and disturbing some of the others.”

She nodded, decisive. This was one thing she could handle. “Take me there. What has he been yelling about?” They started off toward the opposite end of the fort’s lands, Guinevere struggling to get her skirts out of the way as she moved.

“I—I don’t speak Latin very well and he doesn’t speak Briton.”

“He’s not one of the tribesmen?” she asked, quickening her pace.

“No. A Roman.” He nodded to where there was a growing commotion, the man indeed speaking quite loud and frantic, from the look of him.

Guinevere took a breath and plunged into the crowd, quickly moving to the front and studying the man. No warrior this, traveling clothes telling of a lower class. Few possessions, shock of dark hair and dark eyes. More typically Roman than Arthur, then.

“And why do you wish to see the noble Arthur?” Guinevere asked, switching into functional Latin that would at least get her understood.

“It is for his nobility itself,” the man said, finally stopping to take her in. “You must be Guinevere. I have heard tales of your great beauty—skin as soft as a babe’s, the depth of your eyes—” 

Guinevere straightened. And cut him off. “And where would you hear such tales? We are simple people, merely protecting our land.” Blatant falsehoods, but if he didn’t know that…

“No! You are famous! Stories of Mount Badon and the brave Arthur sweep across the lands.”

“And on whose authority do you have it that they are not just that—stories?”

“From Alecto himself. I am Viventius. I have visited with him. He tells all about your bravery and courage.”

Guinevere eyed him, but could detect no signs of lying. To the contrary, the man was almost painfully sincere.

“So I ask again, why do you wish to see Arthur?”

“I wish to devote my talent to his cause.”

Guinevere allowed a corner of her mouth to lift. He was but a boy—a naïve one, to be true—but she couldn’t say this was unwelcome. “And what talent is that?”

“My song,” he answered gravely, imploring her to seriousness.

That was getting…very difficult. She tightened her face so her smile no longer threatened. Some in the crowd were translating for others, and low snickers had begun to spread.

“Your song,” she repeated, adding no inflection at all.

“Yes. I am told I have a beautiful voice. I was to travel the lands, singing of mother Church when I crossed paths with Alecto. His story convinced me I must come here to serve Arthur.”

Laughter was getting louder now, and low murmurings started to escalate. “Quiet!” she commanded the others in Britonnic, switching again to address the boy. “You are a bard, then?”

“Yes. I wish to bring glory to the name Arthur for all the world.”

“Well I wouldn’t want to interfere with your calling. Come inside. You shall be our guest until Arthur is free.”

And now he was painfully hopeful. Guinevere again suppressed the urge to laugh—that would hardly be polite and Arthur was so insistent on politeness—and walked back toward the sleeping quarters. The boy, Viventius, practically skipped along, chattering to himself, not that Guinevere paid much heed. 

Someone was very obviously waiting for her.

She raised an eyebrow as she approached and the man—no, another boy, this one—practically jumped out of his skin.

Too many dead, so few of the hardened ones left. Babes barely out of their mothers’ laps were walking around as if they had some kind of authority—

First order, then. Rebuild an army, under Arthur’s banner, and give them discipline. A blend of Roman and Briton had worked against the Saxons at Badon. It showed promise for the future, not that Arthur was yet thinking such things. She would have to…make mention.

“Guinevere?” He even sounded nervous. Just from _where_ were these people appearing?

“Yes?” she said eventually, survey of the newcomer complete, waving him off with another to find him some quarters. Hopefully near their _guests_.

“I’ve been told to put away your lady’s things, but I do not know where they should go…” Trailing off without even asking a concrete question. What kind of—

She turned, swirling skirts that she didn’t even notice, pinning him with a stare. “My lady,” she enunciated carefully, slowly.

His expression spoke of a blue devil, out on the prowl.

***

“A _lady_?” Guinevere stormed in and started in on Arthur without preamble. “A lady? What son of a whore thought I needed a lady?” she asked, rage coloring her cheeks and bringing her eyes to life.

“It was my idea,” Lancelot said easily, standing and facing her insolently. The headache started up once again. These two needed to find some sort of equilibrium quickly or else he would have no choice but to throw one of them over a cliff. Or both.

“I should have known,” she scoffed. “The idea was too brilliant to belong to anyone else. What, am I to have a nursemaid next?”

Lancelot sneered back: “Not a bad idea for one who acts as no more than a _child_ with no inkling of—”

“That’s quite enough, both of you,” Arthur said, raising his voice. “Why is it that I am always stopping fights? If it’s not you two, it’s you and the Britons,” he said, looking at Lancelot. “And if it’s not you and the Britons, it’s the old warring factions of the Britons. I’m tired of it, both of you. If you’re going to fight be kind enough to do it out of my range of hearing.”

That seemed to knock them down a bit, taking the fire from their eyes. They looked away from Arthur and away from each other, leaving them little choice but to stare at the floor in a pitiful display from the two who were supposed to be his wisest advisers.

Guinevere recovered first, for good or ill. “Arthur, of course I didn’t mean to make myself a nuisance.” Lancelot snorted at that and Guinevere shot him a look that promised retribution. Arthur merely sighed. “But I don’t have a need for a lady of my own and I don’t want the restrictions on my freedom.”

“She’ll put no restrictions on your freedom,” Arthur assured, giving her a meaningful look that made her color faintly.

Lancelot noticed it the same as he did. “Besides, you should be pleased. It was either that or Arthur would have to take her as his second wife,” he said sharply, obviously enjoying the darkening in her eyes. “I came up with the best solution possible, especially considering I didn’t think you’d be inclined to share. Lady.”

Guinevere pulled back her lips in an impressive snarl, but Lancelot just looked bored by it all.

“I thought we were done with this,” Arthur said, pointedly glaring at them both. “You two need to learn to work together or we’re never going to get anything accomplished. This squabbling doesn’t speak well of either of you.”

“Perhaps if we further defined our roles. After all, I am to be Queen. I think I should have more of a say than a simple—”

“I wouldn’t dare to think that you’re better than me, little girl, just because you shared Arthur’s bed once. And didn’t even get what you wanted, at that. I’ve watched girls like you come and go since you were still sucking at your mother’s tit.”

This time she did snarl. “Well I’m not going anywhere, ass, so you’d do well to use what meager intelligence you possess to figure out which of us will have more claim to Arthur in the long run. His knight or his wife.”

“I’d be quite careful about staking claims after you’ve known him for such a short time. I’ve had years and even you can’t break a bond forged in the heat of battle.”

“You forget that I’ve been in battle with him, just as you have.”

“Not hardly, when I had to rescue you from getting cleaved in two.”

“I was perfectly—”

“Enough!” Arthur’s shout echoed throughout the Hall. “Never mind the Britons, you two will be the death of me.” The heat coursing through him had not a little bit of heavy responsibility to it; if only he could make up his own mind, make a choice, forge a truce, this could be done with. But he was so very incapable these days and he was a help to no one, even those closest to him.

He let his thoughts order themselves into something…firmer in before he continued: “Guinevere, I am no one’s possession. Lancelot, stop belittling her for that which she cannot control. I’m of a mind to send both of you away just to get a little quiet around here.”

Two pairs of eyes widened at that and _finally_. Maybe he’d hit on something that would work, at least for a while.

“Arthur—” Lancelot started. 

Arthur stayed him with a look. “I’m not playing at this anymore. I can’t be fighting out there,” he gestured to the guest quarters, “and in here. I won’t have it. If you want to be equal, you’ll get to equally experience my absence.”

“No.” Said definitively, wide startled eyes looking over at him, like Guinevere had even surprised herself. “No, that is not what I—we—want.” She glared over at Lancelot until he finally gave in and waved at her to get on with it.

“I am—sorry, Arthur. We will do better. There’s no need to send us away.” She looked like she was having a hard time acclimating to having to act civilly and Arthur felt a brief spell of amusement coil up, before he pushed it back down.

The glint in Lancelot’s eyes told stories about how little he missed, and Arthur let his lips curl at the other man in understanding. Lancelot nodded…and that was that.

“All right. What other crisis do I need to know about?”

***

“The herald to the Dumnonii has come back. They respectfully request the presence of Arthur, the man who would be king.” Guinevere let her contempt seep into her voice, flowing thick with her words. If anyone would appreciate her scorn, the gods help them all, it would be Lancelot.

Lancelot slammed his hand down, palm-open, not even noticing the sting that must have elicited. “Those bastards,” he said, heat lacing through his voice. “They can’t think they can call for Arthur whenever they please.”

“Apparently they can and have.”

Lancelot finally looked up at her, narrowing his eyes like _she_ was to blame. 

But no, on closer inspection she was not the subject of his sight. Too bad Arthur wasn’t here; it could have been entertaining to watch Lancelot try to be diplomatic in his irritation.

“Let me guess: Arthur wants to go.”

“Arthur wants to go,” she affirmed, nodding in agreement. And he did know Arthur well.

With what she assumed was a curse, he spun and reversed his direction, stalking back toward where he came, tension pulling his shoulders tight and brutal. She smirked at her intended effect and followed, more demure than he, of course.

There was so much to be gained by playing at something she was not.

And men were so very simple sometimes. Predictable. Guinevere did appreciate that trait in them.

Lancelot slammed into Arthur’s rooms without so much as a knock and came to an abrupt halt. And it rankled that he was probably the only one who could do that and not meet the edge of a sword.

“Arthur.”

“Lancelot. Do come in.” Said mildly as Arthur was dressing—putting on a traveling cloak and he _couldn’t possibly_ be leaving immediately. Guinevere discreetly curled her hands into fists and gripped at the material of her dress, feeling little remorse at the tear she felt open.

If Lancelot was unsuccessful she couldn’t say she wouldn’t resort to tying Arthur down and making him listen until he saw reason. And if there were other possibilities inherent in that action, well, she wouldn’t be averse to those, either.

“Arthur, you cannot go.”

A smile curled on Arthur’s face, like it was exactly what he expected—part of those Roman plays Guinevere had heard all about—and had just been waiting for Lancelot to utter his lines.

“Lancelot. Yes. I can.” Still mild and by the tightening of Lancelot’s expression, it was getting to him. Then, shockingly easy, Lancelot calmed down. Almost unnaturally easily and _that_ Guinevere had not expected.

“What are you thinking?” Asked as if he were genuinely interested and wanted to know.

That seemed to give Arthur pause as well, halting his movements and making him turn to observe Lancelot warily, as if expecting attack.

Really, it shouldn’t be _him_ Arthur had to worry about. Guinevere had a dagger on her—a few—and she wasn’t at all hesitant about using them.

“The Dumnonii want to see me; I shall grant them their request.”

“The Dumnonii live at the very southwest point of this island. It’ll take far too long to travel all that way and oh, yes, you have _guests_.” A bit of fire was creeping back in now, his tone even slicing along her skin. And he must have been studying those maps instead of just spinning those coins like she’d always seen him doing.

And apparently he could _read_.

“I’ve met with the Atrebates. The western tribes are stalling for whatever purpose they deem advantageous and we haven’t heard from several of the tribes so no one should be coming soon. I shall return before my absence is even noted.”

Lancelot snorted in disbelief. “Right. No one’s going to notice the leader of men riding out in the middle of the day. Absolutely. The western tribes are going to love that.”

Arthur seemed to consider. “I could wait until the cover of night. Really, Lancelot, this isn’t as large a problem as you make it seem.”

Lancelot moved closer to Arthur, glaring now. “Yes it is,” he said very distinctly, showing lots of teeth. “You can’t go out to meet every deluded king on this miserable little island. You don’t go to them, _they come to you_.” Fierce and bright, he had Arthur’s full attention, though he was resisting Lancelot’s sway.

Time to remind them of her presence, then.

“He’s right.” They finally looked over, Lancelot starting like he’d forgotten she was around. Or hadn’t noticed that she’d followed him here, wanting to watch their confrontation.

He could go screw himself. She’d be of help with this. 

“It will look as if you can be cowed by any tribe that calls on you. It will undermine what we have been trying to do with the tribes and it will stink of some kind of favoritism.” She paused, wondering if she could get away with it. Narrowed her eyes and plunged in: “You know this, Arthur. Why do you really want to leave?”

“I don’t want to leave.” Blatantly false—even she could sense that—though unlike Arthur to lie. Something he had not yet fully analyzed?

Lancelot looked at Arthur, calculating now, trying to figure it out. No doubt the question hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d just internalized Arthur’s stupidity and moved on. For all that he could be persuasive he could also get too caught up in the moment. But then, he always did seem shortsighted and blinded when Arthur was the subject.

“Is it because of us?” she asked, making her voice more coaxing. “We’ve said we’ll be better and we will. Look, we’re in the same room and we’re not even fighting.”

Lancelot threw her a nasty glare at that one, but Arthur wasn’t looking at him so he couldn’t see it. She kept her face neutral but later…she would have no trouble treating him in kind. So long as Arthur didn’t see it, everything was fine.

Arthur visibly came down, again returning to the real world from whatever fantasy land he’d been inhabiting. She could actually see him absorb information, taking in their arguments and considering them.

Doubtless he’d seen it as a way to get away…but to go all the way to the Dumnonii? And jeopardize their progress in the process? 

Perhaps this situation had gotten to him more than she’d anticipated. Lancelot certainly looked worried, concerned, something.

“You’re right,” Arthur said eventually. “I can’t accede to people’s wishes all the time. And I can’t let them order me if I want to do as much in the future.”

“Of course I’m right,” Lancelot scoffed, not unkindly. “I’m _always_ right.” He tugged at Arthur’s cloak, supposedly helping him with it. More akin to pawing at him like the animal Lancelot was. And in front of her, no less.

The man had no sense of shame. Or fair play.

Guinevere respected that.

***

It was all fire. Smoke, choking and gritty, clogged his breathing. The sounds of grunting, gasping, dying reached his ears and he barely even noticed. It was intoxicating, the power of this, and it was simple.

Good and evil, us and them, and Arthur could justify sinking his blade hilt-deep into the next man that rushed him, feeling the blood splash onto him and color his hands red. 

A man in control of his own destiny here, he was at home in the slick of the mud and the slip of blood under his boots. All so familiar—the roaring of Bors and deadly grace of Tristan, blurred at the edges of his vision. The sight of Lancelot still hip-deep in battle, riding off somewhere.

The cries of the Woads added a new layer, and it was almost surreal, but he didn’t have the time to focus his attention to those differences. Men were still coming at him, swinging huge swords that jarred his arm when they connected with his own, though he killed a fair number before they were in reach of that.

He was distracted, again by Lancelot, this time fighting for—Guinevere? Rolling and skillful and easy with his blades, a testament to training and raw talent.

Arthur was relieved to be able to trust in that, if in so little else.

A wonder he looked up, it was so little a thing, and yet huge, a kill by the sound of it. And Arthur well-knew that sound.

The sight was something new, incomprehensible, Lancelot staggering, no hope left for him, not at that. Avenged before he fell still, but was that of consequence?

The urge to go there, do something was strong and he gave in, railed against the men crowding into him. They didn’t understand—care—and wouldn’t. To them that death was one more victory in a battle they didn’t realize they’d already lost.

And Arthur yelled into the mass of them, and awoke to a familiar silence.

Plague. It was a plague, these dreams, and unrelenting. Slightly different each time, different thoughts, different focus, yet they all ended the same way, ended with Arthur shaking and cold and wanting so badly to prove they weren’t real.

Even if he knew they weren’t—he was here, he was building something shadowy and great, even if he could not yet visualize its ultimate shape—and Lancelot had stayed.

There was no reason for his hands to shake and yet…they did. He could still taste the blood on his tongue, feel the weight of the armor, see the look on Lancelot’s face as he fell.

Arthur shuddered and shook himself, head in his hands and trying to push the thoughts away.

“You cried my name.” Arthur started, breath catching in his throat, every trained instinct telling him to reach for his sword. He was not expecting anyone to be there, not realizing his dream had crossed to waking like that.

“Lancelot,” he said roughly, no little relief in his voice, he knew. It was—silly. Silly and irrational and a child’s haunts.

“You cried my name…and it didn’t sound like it was in pleasure, Arthur.” Voice resolved into shape, as Lancelot came near, whisper-silent in the too-dark room, only betraying the darkening of his outline. Bright flare of a light—lantern by his bed—and they were both cast in shadow and fire. 

He spared a brief laugh for Lancelot—he never did lose a sense of the absurd—before Arthur turned somber again.

Lancelot sat, uninvited of course, pulling up legs to shift more comfortably, settling one of his swords against the bed.

It must have alarmed him. Arthur was not known for such things. Uncommon to hear anything from his rooms, except quiet, maybe murmured prayers and pleasure shared on occasion. The former far more than the latter. And hardly in these rooms, besides.

“What dreams haunt your nights to make you so?”

Arthur stayed silent, not answering but also no longer dwelling on that which could not possibly come to pass. After all, Lancelot was sitting next to him and his chest was unmarred by the treachery of a Saxon war-prince.

“And so you haunt the halls, for what? To cast out that which haunts you?”

Arthur took a breath. “I don’t wish to speak of things better left forgotten.”

“Are they? Forgotten?” Arthur glanced sideways and Lancelot caught his eye. “Is it forgotten if it’s so prominent in your nights?”

Arthur turned his eyes away, liberating a blanket from the pile on his bed and wrapping himself in it. “You should return to your rooms. It is chilly tonight.”

“It’s chilly every night. That’s this island’s only claim to a reputation.”

Arthur snorted at the jab, but let his other directive stand. Lancelot understood and nodded, collecting his sword. 

He took a few steps, paused, and turned back, something serious in his eyes. “If you ever want a shield against…this,” he waved expressively and stopped there.

It was the boldest offer between them…and one Arthur could not accept, though he longed to do just that, to sink into Lancelot’s heat and assure himself in the most visceral way possible that Lancelot was alive, breathing, and with him.

“Goodnight, old friend.”

Lancelot inclined his head, eyes shining liquid-bright in the glare of the lamp, and left.

***

“The western tribes—”

“No.”

“The western tribes—”

“ _No_.”

“Stop interrupting, you son of a whore!”

A sound very much like that of a knife being pulled caused Arthur to look up from where he had wandered over to the map, raising an eyebrow at two guilty expressions and hands behind backs before looking back down again.

“The western tribes need some handholding,” Arthur finished, sure that was not what Guinevere would have said, but caring little. “Every time they are let alone, they manage to talk themselves out of the alliance.”

“I will not baby-sit those bastards! I already had to listen to them once. Luck and my incomparable control are the only two things that stopped what would have been a satisfying and far overdue death,” Lancelot said, indignant, settling his glare on Guinevere. 

Well, her presence could be useful in that, at least. It gave each of them a target that wasn’t Arthur. Nice for a change.

“So there _are_ limits to what you’ll do,” Guinevere shot back, folding her arms and glaring an accusation at Lancelot. Really, one would swear he were the cause of all their troubles.

“I haven’t asked anyone to do anything,” he reminded quietly, pulling them away from yet another squabble, though they had stayed true to their word and had significantly damped down on their hotter instincts. Either that or they were just fighting more when Arthur wasn’t present. “It was merely an observation.”

“With implications,” Guinevere said tartly.

“How in the hell are they changing their minds so fast? Perhaps it’s the women’s influence. Your people never should have put a woman in charge.” Calculated to make her twitch and it did quite the effective job.

“My people are more firmly with us than any other. These bastards are not my people.”

“That’s not the issue at hand,” Arthur reminded, still poring over the map. Really, unless it came to blows he wasn’t keen on intervening. He’d trust their agreement until they gave him firm reason not to. Arthur tapped his fingers restlessly against the table, then abruptly stilled, feeling the air shift.

“What is it, Tristan?”

Both Lancelot and Guinevere whirled, having missed the other man’s entrance, too busy glaring at each other, probably.

Tristan inclined his head and moved further into the room, gait so eerily silent. “You are speaking of the Ordovices?”

Arthur nodded.

“Their leader wants the crown for himself. His wife is working to ally them with the Silures and Demetae. Possibly the Dalriada.”

“That piece of shit!” Lancelot banged his fist on the table.

Guinevere slitted her eyes, watching Tristan closely. “That wouldn’t be enough. Three or four tribes wouldn’t present much of a threat, especially when they’re spread thin as they are.”

“They’re talking with the tribes across the water.” 

Guinevere hissed at that, clenching her own fists, but remained silent on the matter. 

“The Scotti? They never get involved in these politics; they have their own troubles,” Arthur said, looking for some kind of confirmation.

Tristan said nothing, letting his words stand and Arthur eventually nodded. If they were contemplating an alliance with other tribes to the west then that would change things. Though they must be giving something in return…

“How do you know this, anyway?” Lancelot asked, tone more belligerent than was strictly necessary. The tension was getting to him; he was winding himself into a tighter knot by the day and it concerned Arthur. Not for the first time, he wondered if it had been wise to bring him into all of this.

Not that Arthur could well have _stopped_ him.

Tristan barely moved but Arthur got the definite sense of annoyance. Amazing how he did that. He should teach the two annoyances in _Arthur’s_ life a lesson. Perhaps then Arthur would have fewer headaches. “I heard one of the wives talking.”

Or, he was spying on them.

Lancelot looked quite—approving. 

As did Guinevere. “Perhaps your knights are useful for _something_ , then,” she muttered lowly.

“Guinevere, you’re such a bitch,” Lancelot snapped, turning his attention back to her.

Arthur ignored them. “Tristan. They are not the enemy.”

A considering pause, head cocked not unlike that of his hawk, notably absent: “Sure of that?”

Arthur straightened, spine stiffening. This wasn’t how this alliance was supposed to go. It was better for all the tribes, they should be going along. And he couldn’t gain their trust if they thought Arthur was having them watched.

“I don’t want you overhearing anything else.”

“Why not?” Lancelot asked, eyes flashing genuine puzzlement at him.

“Because I want them to trust us, Lancelot.”

“Why? It doesn’t seem like we can trust them.”

“Maybe that’s because we’ve never given them cause to have faith in us,” he said sharply, giving Lancelot a look that would quell whatever he’d planned to say next. Invariably it was something to do with misguided honor and differing standards. Arthur had heard it all before. 

He turned to Tristan, forcing the agitation with Lancelot away and bringing the seriousness forth, ensuring Tristan would see it and know. “No more, Tristan.”

With that he strode out before he could get into another argument with any one of them. Not for the first time he wondered where all his self-control had got off to.

***

They were all silent as Arthur whirled and stalked out of the room, no comfort at all in his last glance. 

A beat and then Guinevere spoke: “Of course, we would never want to undermine Arthur’s rule. He is King. But if you were to _happen_ to hear anything of value, purely by accident, I wouldn’t at all object to that information,” she said, casting a sly glance at Tristan before returning her gaze to Lancelot.

What, was she judging his reaction? Like he would argue with that.

Lancelot straightened and sent a meaningful glance Tristan’s way. Only a flicker showed in his eyes—annoyance, amusement, irritation, something—and then it was gone. He left as silently as he came.

Guinevere lifted her chin, arrogant, and it caused a flare of ire to surface. “Oh, fuck off. We all know Arthur’s being an idealistic fool. You won’t find me arguing, even with the likes of you.”

She smirked. “I was enjoying your silence for once. It’s not often you agree with me. Such a shame when I’m always right.”

“Hardly,” he sneered. “And don’t get too used to the feeling, _milady_. It won’t recur very often.”

Her eyes narrowed this time and she rocked back into a fighting stance. Lancelot just scoffed; that was the best way to get to her, anyway.

“It never ceases to amaze that he can stand to be in the same room with you for more than a moment, much less take you to bed, unyielding jackass that you are.”

“Jealous, lady?” he taunted, circling around her toward the door, never letting her get a clear shot. He wasn’t at all certain she wouldn’t take it. 

“That would make me a sad sort, if I were to descend to such a level,” she sneered back, looking for all the world like she’d engage him anyway, despite his precautions. He was suddenly thankful there didn’t seem to be anywhere to conceal a sword in that filmy mess of a dress she was wearing. 

Arthur would throw a fit if he found them blade to blade and snarling at each other. Though it might resolve things, one way or the other. It didn’t seem like either of them would give any time soon; the grave seemed a viable option.

He was almost out the door when he paused, wholly incapable of not taking a parting shot. “Must be frustrating for you, then. Having already sunk so low.”

Her indignant cry followed him out the door.

***

There was a rumor missionaries had been about. If Lancelot had translated drunken slurring correctly. Arthur wasn’t in the meeting hall so that probably meant he was brooding in his chambers. And oh, what fun _that_ would be.

Arthur didn’t even react when Lancelot walked in, too busy studying some book he was holding, and that pitched Lancelot’s temper ever higher. Fuck the Britons, _Arthur_ needed a babysitter. He was going to get himself killed with his carelessness as if he didn’t realize the brewing hostile bid for kingdom was a real threat to his life. Or didn’t care. 

Neither was an option Lancelot would accept so the man would just have to get over it.

“You’re not starting that again,” he said—stated—watching Arthur quickly look up, obviously surprised and obviously trying to hide it. It shouted how far gone he was that he hadn’t even noticed Lancelot’s entrance.

It wasn’t like Lancelot was very quiet about it. Or anything.

“Don’t you respect any boundaries?” Blaming and deflecting—that was unusual for Arthur. He was far too invested in the direct approach, even if he had to flay himself in the process. Missionaries must have hit on something particularly painful.

“Of course not. Boundaries are for other people. Besides, if I did every other day you’d be running off to save people and get yourself killed in the process. Come to think of it, recently I haven’t had the greatest success in keeping you from doing almost exactly that. This must be corrected.”

The smile wasn’t so much a smile as a bitter gash across Arthur’s face. Normally a statement like that would have gotten some kind of intent denial…but not now. Fuck.

“I’m looking at this, trying in vain to see some of the meaning that brought so much comfort.” He held up the book to give Lancelot better light, not that he needed it. There was only one thing Arthur would feel the need to read in such circumstances.

Lancelot took a breath. “That’s just ink and paper. It has little relation to flesh and blood. As well you know, Arthur—what did they say?”

“Say? They came to visit the future Christian King of Britain. Apparently they hadn’t heard of my rather _fantastic_ break with Rome.” And about which anger was still the first response. What was he supposed to say about that?

“You made your choices and though I don’t have to be pleased with all their _consequences_ , you did so knowingly.”

“Yes I made my choices as a _free man_. I was so forcefully reminded of that fact when some of my _fellow_ Christians decided to enlist me to help them convert the heathen Britons. Oh, and remaining Sarmatians, of course.”

Lancelot snorted. “They really didn’t know much about you, did they?”

Arthur shook his head, look blurring and going far away. “I look at that to which I devoted so much of my life and I despair to find any of the greatness that once awed me so.”

He shook himself out of it and turned back to Lancelot almost imploringly, and since when did Arthur look for absolution for his misdeeds? “I won’t argue with you, if that what you’re expecting. Some people have been saying this for _years_.”

“Yes, you in all your wise cynicism. I looked to the best but I can’t see that now.”

“You thought the best would outweigh all the abuses that came along. You believe in man’s greatness. I know his depravity. But none of that matters now.”

Arthur shook his head, sadly. “It’s all that ever mattered.” 

“You can’t judge people by books and words and ideals. You judge by actions. Your actions here, now, are more important than any unattainable ideals.”

Green eyes flecked now with the despair of one of his _real_ broods, Arthur frowned. “I wish I believed that.”

***

“What’s this I hear of a bard?” Lancelot asked, prissy and gruff.

“A hopeful bard. Arthur has an acolyte, it seems.” The amusement of the scene earlier hadn’t worn off and it looked as though the tale had spread.

“And you invited him to stay?” Lancelot’s demeanor had shifted. Now he was just wary, looking for the hidden meaning. 

As if she were so obvious as that. Really, what an insult.

“Even I can be swayed by men’s passions, Lancelot,” she said airily, smirking. A posed pause. “But then again, having someone to sing Arthur’s praises is not at all a bad idea. Especially with our current…dilemma.”

The mood turned serious, as quick as that, and Lancelot nodded mutely. No arguing. Something was about.

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re subdued.”

“Am I?” he asked, a bit of the old insolence creeping out.

She ignored the bait. “Did something happen?”

“How impossible would it be to ban all Christians from this land?”

She cocked her head. Arthur had a meeting with missionaries and hadn’t been seen since. That wasn’t a difficult one to solve.

“You’d have to get Arthur’s consent. And how possible is that?”

Lancelot looked—something. He shook it off. “The representative of the Cantiaci is looking for you. He made it seem urgent.”

She shook her head, long locks fanning over her cheeks whisper-soft. “They always make it seem urgent and they’re in the best position.”

Lancelot nodded and started off, only turning back as quickly, jerky yet. “The bard? Is he good?” And now he had a bit of cunning in his eyes, planning.

“I suppose we shall find out.”

“Yes. He can tell us more about your milky skin and shining hair,” Lancelot said dramatically, hand going over his heart.

“You—” But he was already gone in a huff of laughter. And the Cantiaci awaited.

***

“What are we going to do about the western tribes, Arthur?”

He sighed, shaking his head. That was the question, two days, even more conferences, and it still wasn’t resolved. “I don’t know.”

“We have to think of something.”

“I don’t like how we got this information.” Tristan. And Arthur hadn’t seen him for two days which made him _deeply_ suspicious.

Lancelot rolled his eyes. “We have it. Everything else is meaningless. We need a plan.”

And that almost sounded like Lancelot was actually enjoying this. Or at least not objecting to being involved anymore.

Arthur grinned wryly. “Divide and conquer?” he suggested, dry as Britain never managed to be.

“You know, savior of the world though you may be, you’re really not very funny.” Lancelot rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at the edges of his lips and that pleased Arthur. All this intrigue had left them with precious little time to be them and Arthur was struck with the fact that he was immeasurably glad Lancelot was here. With him. 

“This is better because you’re here,” he said, sudden and unexpected.

And it looked as though Lancelot hadn’t expected that either, mouth opening in surprise, searching for something to say.

“Arthur—”

“The western tribes, yes,” he reminded, shaking himself out of his reverie and turning attention back to the subject at hand.

Lancelot growled.

“What?”

“You always do that. Change the subject.”

Arthur forced himself to look at the other man—and that was all the invitation he needed. Lancelot was on him in a moment, lips taking his in a rasping burn to which Arthur couldn’t help but yield.

***

“Lancelot,” Arthur shuddered out, one shaky hand running through Lancelot’s hair, his beard, lips barely a breath away. “I thought—when you had your freedom, you were leaving.” Twining desperation ran through Arthur’s words, etching into the surface of Lancelot’s skin.

When he had his freedom—damn! Arthur just loved playing the martyr. It wouldn’t be so troublesome if he would leave Lancelot out of it, but that didn’t seem like it would happen anytime soon.

He breathed out, arching and nuzzling down Arthur’s cheek, biting a reminder into Arthur’s chin, not hard enough to bruise, but enough for him to notice. “I changed my mind,” he said, damnably unsteady hands seeking out the sweet spots of Arthur’s cuirass.

Arthur hissed a shock, turning to take Lancelot’s mouth in another yearning, roiling kiss. His ragged breathing was loud between them and even Lancelot couldn’t understand what it was trying to tell him.

“You didn’t see fit to mention this _earlier_?” he asked, hand tightening in Lancelot’s hair and opening the door for a little more clarity to spread through his mind.

He laughed darkly, matching the depth of it spreading through Arthur’s eyes. “What, before you tried to take a Woad to bed?” he asked, voice hitching on the last, floating to Arthur and hitting him with a physical force Lancelot couldn’t have matched. 

Lancelot lifted his chin. “Would it have changed anything?”

“ _Yes_.” Hissed vehemently, raw power pulsing outwards, surrounding, trickling down Lancelot’s neck.

Lancelot laughed again, bitter smoke twining with familiar desperation. “No. Merlin wanted you to be King and to do that you had to have Guinevere. You can’t rule without her. The only way to avoid it would have been to deny their plea, let the Saxons slaughter everyone on this island.”

Arthur’s look turned inward, internal battle Lancelot couldn’t see but could guess at. How Arthur managed to get himself into these situations—where they were _both_ fucked any way you looked at it—was the most exasperating thing about him.

“But you wouldn’t do that. You’re Arthur, the Honorable.”

“You make it sound as a disease,” he spat out, self-flagellation again residing in his eyes, green as this land and just as perilous.

Lancelot turned again, catching and releasing Arthur’s lips, soft in a way calculated to take his mind away from that which he could not alter anyway. “In other men, perhaps.” Lancelot tilted his head, watching Arthur struggle with himself. “But you somehow manage to make attractive what in others is most—contemptible.”

Arthur snorted, but said nothing.

“You are Arthur,” Lancelot reminded, his hands tracing their way up to hold Arthur’s chin, force him to watch Lancelot. Though he was so invested in his punishment he probably wouldn’t have looked away. “You will rule. To do that there are certain inevitable things to do and I know that. I will never like her. But I will content myself in that…for this.”

Arthur looked fiercer somehow, like something had firmed under his skin and he’d been made resolute. He took Lancelot’s face in hand and pulled him close, lips declaring ownership as he pulled Lancelot over a cliff and launched them both to the sky.

A strangled gasp made Arthur pull back, mouth red and swollen, flush already starting down his neck. Lancelot desperately wanted to follow that path with teeth and tongue and Arthur was looking over his shoulder—

Oh.

Lancelot turned, found Guinevere looking more stricken than the stupid girl ought, and rolled his eyes, turning back. So long as whoever it was wouldn’t hurt these fragile alliances, he didn’t fucking care who wanted to watch. He’d waited long enough.

Apparently Arthur had a different idea, stepping away with not a little dignity, nodding to Guinevere in greeting.

Lancelot sighed, annoyed. This idiotic girl was always ruining things for him. Someone really needed to tie her to a bed so she could no longer fuck up his life.

He ignored her for the time being, stepping in to Arthur again, drawing his attention.

Switching into Sarmatian was the work of but a moment, familiar shapes filling his mouth: “When you’ve dropped the child, come get me.” He knew his eyes promised unearthly delights and he fully intended to carry through with them.

The breath lost Arthur’s body, slumping over as with pain, and Lancelot passed a hand over his chest as he turned to go. All was well, after all, no use being dramatic about it.

He couldn’t help the smirk as he walked, past Guinevere who studiously ignored his very presence, and out into the coolness of the corridor.

***

Arthur blew out a breath as he watched that enticing man swagger out, forgetting for a moment that he had an audience.

“Do you desire Britain or not?” Guinevere asked, bringing his thoughts to her and how the hard planes of her face betrayed nothing.

“I do not confuse the two of you,” he answered the real question, not unkindly, watching some intangible hurt bloom behind her eyes.

It was gone in but a moment.

“Sometimes, it’s good to remind myself that I chose you,” she said, without prompting.

“I was just as culpable. Guinevere…”

“No, you weren’t. I made a choice and I’d do it again. I’d do anything for—but you knew that.”

Arthur said nothing, not wanting to break anything irreparably. The truth was much more complex, as it always was, and he’d been so broken at the time. He’d asked himself the same questions again and again, to little result.

Would it have been the same, if he’d known of Lancelot sooner? Would he have done the same? He liked to think so, but so many things would be different. Lancelot, for all his reckless pushing, was right. He needed Guinevere to rule and Arthur knew it. He’d always known it.

And he didn’t much like what that said about him.

“I could content myself, I think. I know what I do is for all of my people and that has always been more important.”

“Guinevere,” he paused, not knowing where to begin. “I wouldn’t have you consign yourself to anything.”

“Are you speaking to me or yourself?” she asked, eyes brushing shame upon him.

Was he? Would he even be here if not for a misunderstanding of colossal magnitude? 

“It’s not—that simple,” he said lamely, knowing it was hardly the answer for which she searched by the dizzying disappointment in her eyes.

“Never is. I’m determined, Arthur, in case you hadn’t noticed. I don’t let things stand in my way. It would be good for you to…” she paused, looking away, “decide.” 

Yes, that would be good. How to go about doing that was the real issue.

***

Guinevere pulled herself away from the—visage—with effort. Arthur’s eyes had gone soft and distant, his posture infected with a vaguely guilty air.

She breathed deeply and shut that part of herself away; it could wait. She had a purpose and seeing it through focused her these days.

“Arthur.”

He swiftly looked up and yes, he had forgotten she was there. The pain of that—was immaterial.

“I’ve been to Merlin. He will talk with the Ordovices.”

Arthur blinked, coming back to their current troubles with obvious effort. “Will that resolve anything?”

She felt her lips press together, unaccountably annoyed. “Their leader. His ancestor was one of ours. He’ll listen. Merlin will make him.” Of that she had to be sure. There was too much uncertainty; Merlin was her respite in all this and she still didn’t know what motivated him to choose her. But that didn’t matter, either. Merlin would get them to see reason and that was all that presently concerned her.

“Are your ancestral ties as strong as all that?” Strong enough to counter the call of a crown, of power and tribute and all that went with it. Arthur didn’t speak it; he hardly had to.

“Merlin will take care of it.”

_He_ had to.

“Then we will leave it to him. Was that all?” A dismissal, that, and she only stopped the grinding of her teeth by reminding herself that she had asked him for an answer…and the conflict in his eyes told her he knew she expected one. Even if his honor would demand he give it nonetheless.

“Yes.” She turned to go.

“Guinevere.” Still focused on the problems at hand and for that she would stay.

“Yes?”

“What about the Scotti? Surely Merlin doesn’t have sway there, too?” Arthur sounded vaguely unsettled. Surely he wasn’t worrying over Merlin. Or would that _finally_ be too much to ask?

“That will work itself out, I think. We shall have to see.”

He nodded again and didn’t object when she left without another word.

***

It was—being torn between two visions of the world, similar yet not, both pulling at his sense of duty, both pulling at everything he was.

It was—keeping his word to one or keeping his bond to the other.

It was—so desperately wanting to believe in something again, someone. And either option was an unbearable choice. Not that he hadn’t had enough of those in his life. But he couldn’t serve two masters and this—he’d chosen between certain death and certain death, more than once even, and it’d come easier. 

But to choose between life and life…it wasn’t anything he’d ever expected. And couldn’t be lightly granted. It was choosing what he would be _for_ , and he’d been _for_ Rome and _for_ God for so long he didn’t know if he could dedicate himself so deeply any longer. This messiness could never resolve itself into anything pure, and he’d had to content himself with the greater good for too long.

Lancelot offered what he’d always wanted, an ache he’d carried silently buried for so long he didn’t know how to react to its sudden blooming for all to see.

Guinevere offered a land and a people and a purpose. Arthur fully admitted the chance to build something great and lasting and meaningful pulled at him. A place, a land, where all people would be treated as they ought. Another chance at the way things should be, creating something by _his_ hand, at his will. Something more perfect than even Rome in all its glory could offer.

And yet he had seen to what the pursuit of perfection had led.

Either, or. A path he’d not dared imagine or a place he _couldn’t_ imagine. Visions of impossibility, both. If they were more real, if he could see the end result, logically move forward one step to the next—he’d be better. But it was all shrouded from his view. He was muddled and plodding and totally out of depth.

A poor ruler he would make.

“Getting into trouble, Arthur?” Deceptively mild and Arthur smiled at it, at the man who so occupied his thoughts.

“I have not the gift. Unlike some,” he answered back automatically, turning on Lancelot and welcoming him with eyes if nothing else.

Lancelot circled his table, keeping careful distance. Interesting. “Ahh, but that is untrue. You always could get into more trouble up here,” he said, pointing to his forehead, “than anything I could ever do out here.” He spread his arms wide, spanning the room, the world.

No, but he’d never done things halfway, either.

Silence had descended and if he remembered correctly, that’d been his fault. Nothing for it, though. There was nothing to say to that.

Lancelot was studying him, too attentive now, paying attention. Closely. Had been, ever since that—

Since Arthur had given into that weakness and allowed it to pull at him more strongly than before. Clouding his judgment. Guinevere had been another weakness, yet both had been fueled by the same person, and that had not the power of _this_.

A good strategy, if it was that. Guinevere would be both appalled and envious Lancelot had thought it up first. Not that he had, he’d just proven more effective than she.

Guinevere pulled him in with the comforts offered by her body. Lancelot sunk sweet claws into his gut and made it impossible to tear away, or even want to.

“You’re avoiding me.” Broken silence, broken vows, broken world he couldn’t fix.

“Yes.” Deserved the truth. And Arthur could give him that much.

Lancelot stepped forward, just a bit, considering. “Why?”

“If I don’t, I won’t be able to clear my thinking, evaluate logically, choose wisely.”

Lancelot snorted, drawing attention to that mouth, the twisted lips. “And how’s that working for you?” Mockery, as always, but it was a legitimate point.

“Your presence outshines everything,” he said by way of answer. And it was true. His scent was on the air, his presence was in every room, a flickering shadow Arthur could _feel_ at the back of his skull.

“Good,” Lancelot growled, grim finality and weighty determination, all wrapped up in tempered steel.

“Lancelot—”

“If you think—if you think for one instant that I will be giving up, that I will let you keep me away because of your duty _yet again_ —” Saying ‘duty’ like it was a curse, Arthur felt the pang of that. He’d been shunted aside for so long and all for a duty that, in the end, was for naught. This frustration was well-deserved.

“And yet I must choose. Again. Why is it I must always choose between you and life, Lancelot?”

Stiffened silence and a cold reception did that meet. Arthur turned pained eyes to watch, because that must have struck with more force than he’d intended. Intended no force at all, though that was never the result.

Lancelot stood tense and alone, fiery for all that he looked empty. “And I thought I did offer life,” he said bitterly and oh. Arthur had not meant it like that…but there really was no other way for Lancelot to take it.

Perhaps he did mean it, then.

“My life,” he amended.

“Don’t evade, Arthur,” Lancelot mocked again, falling back on sarcasm when wounded. Dangerous.

Laughter. Ashy and earthen and absolutely scalding, his choked throat, the sting behind his eyes. “If there is one thing I am not guilty of, Lancelot, it is evasion.” No, he’d always preferred things so much more immediate and _agonizing_. That was real, if nothing else.

Lancelot just nodded, short, and looked away. “Do let me know, _my lord_ , when you decide whether or not I’m _worth_ it.” And out he walked, moving the earth with every step.

He could move the moon and stars if he wanted to. If Arthur would give in and let him.

***

Lancelot looked ready to crack. Normally this would be cause for celebration, but even Guinevere was willing to put aside such things to get what she wanted. And, much as she’d die before admitting it, she needed Lancelot himself these days.

She deliberately crossed his path, looking him up and down when he was obliged to stop. “Hair trouble?” she asked, innocent enough.

He raised his hand self-consciously, only aborting the move at the last. Not that it could stop her smirk, of course.

Lancelot scowled, which was really quite unattractive. He should do it more often. Maybe then Arthur would have an easier time of things.

“What do you want?” he asked, not pleasant by any stretch of the term.

“You not stomping around the castle like you’d gladly invite random violence just to get a little relief.”

“Ah, so you are learning to pay attention to something other than yourself.”

“Not that you’re very difficult to figure out,” she dismissed.

He scowled again and walked away, refusing to slow down even though he knew she’d have trouble keeping pace. Bastard. 

Screwing dignity she sprinted, grabbing his arm to swing him ‘round, fixing him in place. “You may think all I want is to bind Arthur to me and Britain as quickly and firmly as possible…and in that you’re right,” she said lowly. “But you also know Arthur. You know he needs something in which to believe. He can have that here.”

“And I thought he could find that in me.”

“Maybe so, but until he makes that choice—and it is his to make—you’ve agreed to help. This isn’t helpful.”

Lancelot wrenched his arm away, stepping back. “We’re both wrangling for what we want.”

“The difference is that I’m actually working toward something.”

“What would you have me do? Not that I would listen, of course.”

“I would have you shoulder some of his burden, since you’re so concerned about him carrying it. And, of course.”

Lancelot set his jaw and looked away, but she could tell he was thinking about it. More than she’d expected, to be true.

***

“I hear talk of a bard,” Arthur commented, too casual by half.

“Really? A bard? How enthralling.”

Narrowed eyes probably meant he was caught in it, but Lancelot didn’t let his surprised look waver. Nor did he allow any of his conflict to show. Arthur could read him well, yes, but Lancelot could still keep some things to himself.

It was such a bitch when Guinevere had a point, though. Besides which, giving Arthur space was not one of Lancelot’s special skills. And though he longed to sit the man down and shake him until he figured it all out, he knew that wouldn’t resolve anything.

Maybe this would. And keeping it light. The latter was easier with the height of ridiculousness that played out here day in and out. The longer they all stayed in one place, the crazier things seemed.

One of these days, Merlin would start making sense. And that would be a scary eventuality, indeed.

“Yes. Has been here a few days. Wants to devote his life to singing song.”

“And making merry?”

The angle of Arthur’s head meant he was not amused. “You would probably know better about that.”

Lancelot waved that away. “Not me, Arthur. You should check with your precious lady.”

“Am I precious now?” Lancelot started, looking over to the open door through which Guinevere had just entered.

Someone really needed to learn to shut these things.

He recovered quickly enough, smirking at her for good measure. “I won’t tell a soul. What a sully on your _unmarred_ reputation.”

Amusement flooded her eyes for a moment, but her attention was inevitably drawn back to Arthur. Who looked to be glowering.

Wonderful.

“Arthur?”

“A bard?” What would have been disdain there muted into something dangerously disbelieving.

“He was so very adamant. I couldn’t turn him away.”

“And he’s been performing for our guests?”

“One cannot keep an artist from his trade,” she said, as if totally reasonable. Lancelot stifled his smirk as he turned to see Arthur’s reaction.

Which wasn’t good. Rubbing the bridge of his nose and so tired.

“What do you think you’re doing? Both of you?”

Lancelot pulled on his most innocent mask, sure Guinevere did the same, and just looked at Arthur.

“Neither of you sees the problem?” A pause. “Well, let me inform you. Some of the leaders don’t very well like the continuous praise. It makes them less in the eyes of their men.”

“They are less,” Lancelot grumbled. Ill-humored, stinking, whiny bastards. They should be kissing the ground Arthur walked on, not bitching about being the inferior fighters everyone agreed they were.

Arthur shot him a look—displeasure, understanding, and even affection rolled into it—before turning stern again. “Am I understood?”

Lancelot leaned back in his chair, jiggling his leg impatiently. “I suppose someone could suggest he compose…some other songs. Praising the wisdom of…other tribes.”

“Like the Iceni,” Guinevere pointed out, sweet and light and helpful. And still an irritating bitch. Nothing would change that.

Arthur relaxed again, letting a brief moment of amusement shine in his eyes. “See what we can accomplish when we’re not throwing things at one another?”

Lancelot narrowed his eyes and _glared_ , and from behind he heard Guinevere flounce out. Melodramatic child.

And the man sitting pleased in his chair, well, he wasn’t much better.

***

Trust Arthur to build himself another crisis in but a few hours.

“None would seek to go around you,” Tristan said, that quiet intensity making each word a story of its own, hushed tones still carrying lightly over to her position concealed behind a column.

“No, but they don’t agree. And they would seek to _help_ , in whatever way they believe is necessary.”

Tristan merely cocked his head and said nothing, assessing gaze obviously peering into the core of Arthur, making Guinevere aware of how much he was showing the other man. She just hoped the other tribes couldn’t see it. They weren’t known for their mercy when they smelled weakness.

Tristan nodded and moved off, departing in that detached way, making him seem almost mindless when even she knew that he took in every detail of everything. She’d admitted it already; sometimes these knights could be useful.

“Spying, lady?” It was an effort not to jump, though she was proud she managed it. Guinevere turned, a board for a spine, still shaken by how Tristan had just—appeared. Like the magic about which the others whispered, but more impressive because he was utterly of this earth.

“Of course not.”

“So Arthur knows you listen in on his conversations?” Oddly penetrating gaze, not a little bit of humor in it. Amazing how he could give the impression of laughing without changing his stoic expression.

“I wasn’t listening; I was looking for someone.”

A cocked head asked a question and the corners of her lips twitched. Though he tried to pass it off he wanted to know, and Guinevere made sure to stretch out the moment, holding him in his uncertainty.

The sardonically raised eyebrow might have meant he wasn’t impressed, though he still had a glint of that question in his eyes.

“You, for a fact.”

That did get his attention; a careful blink and assessing sweep of his gaze—and for any other man that would have been eyeing her. Could still be for him, though Guinevere couldn’t be sure…

“What can I do for you?” Polite disinterest, amused acquiescence, he encompassed so many things. It made her fingers itch to peel him back, beneath skin and sweet muscle, get a look inside.

She clenched her fists.

“Teach me your language.” Hanging between an order and a question—more toward the former, truthfully—with just the right note of demand. Perfect.

Amusement bloomed full and proud in his eyes, turning them dark and knowing. His lips didn’t even twitch. “My language.”

“Yes. It would be—useful. Arthur’s too busy and I don’t want to burden him with it. You’re a scout and we’re not moving. You seemed the logical choice.” Why did she have the uncomfortable feeling of trying to justify herself? He hadn’t even questioned her motivations, not really, but that gaze was prickling under skin, rushing hot and piercing.

“My language is different than theirs.” He didn’t elaborate.

He didn’t need to.

“You’re all from Sarmatia. There must be similarities.”

He turned his head, eyes glinting at her, considering, just as predatory as that bird he carried around. “Know much about the Sarmatian tongues, do you?”

Heat flooded through her. She only hoped it didn’t show in her face, on her skin. It probably didn’t need to; his expertise was people, after all.

She lifted her chin. “Fine. If you won’t, I’ll ask someone else.”

His lips did twitch then. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

And now all the double-talk was starting to irritate her. And she’d thought dealing with Tristan would be simpler. “After dinner, then?” No point in being coy about it.

He nodded grandly—mocking her, she was sure—and walked off.

It idly occurred to her that it was one of the few times she’d actually seen him leave.

***

“This isn’t working,” Guinevere stated flatly, resting on an elbow and still picking at the remains of her meal. “We’re going about this the wrong way.”

“What do you mean it’s not working? We already have the south with us, your people with us, it’s just the damned Scotti and their allies,” Lancelot huffed, happily spread boneless and sated in his chair and glaring at her for her unhelpful _opinions_.

“But every time we convince one tribe, another switches. Now the Demetae have visions of a grand rule. If we keep going on like this there will never be one land to protect!”

“Do you have an alternative?” Arthur asked, sounding patient but with just the opposite written into every line of his body. He wasn’t eating much and there were hollows in his cheeks.

And all this was supposed to make him feel _better_.

Guinevere looked frustrated. “No.”

Arthur sighed, visibly sagging, and Lancelot was grateful it was only them, though he still distrusted Merlin in his silent and distant contemplation. If it were a larger group…

Larger group.

He sat up: “Get them all together.”

“What?”

“What?”

“Get them all together. Get them together and make them decide at once, in front of all.”

“What, so they can choose someone else to be king? Or worse, so half can choose one and half with the other? And who’s to say they’ll even keep to that agreement?” Guinevere demanded.

Lancelot waved the last away. “Make that known. Make it known that they must speak for their people and on their honor must keep to their choice.”

“Still, it won’t look good if they pick someone else,” Guinevere said, furrowing her brow, like she was working it out in her head as she spoke.

Lancelot smiled his most charming smile at her. “Then we ensure that they don’t.”

And Arthur was finally looking a little less defeated, a little more interested. That was something at least.

Merlin finally spoke: “It could work.”

Lancelot tried his best not to roll his eyes. Closing them seemed to be the only thing to keep himself from doing so, however. At least the blackness didn’t make him want to clench his fists at all the grand posturing and irritating knowing looks.

The hopeful note to Arthur’s voice made him raise his head. “Can it be done?” Asked quietly, but intense, focused, and Lancelot didn’t bother keeping his grin at bay.

Merlin nodded, eyes looking to something far off and obscured from their view. “Yes. But we must give them time.”

Lancelot interrupted then: “Time? Seems like a simple enough question. Do you want to die? Do you not want to die?”

Arthur actually looked amused and the cant of Guinevere’s shoulders said that she wasn’t as annoyed as her expression indicated. Fuck all if he could read Merlin, though.

“It might be wise not to frame the question so,” Merlin answered…and was that humor? 

Guinevere smiled, so yes? Lancelot was having a little trouble catching onto the idea that Merlin could sling jokes as well as he seemed to sling arrows.

“They need time to get here,” Arthur answered meditatively. “And it will have to be here. Make _them_ come to _us_ ,” he said meaningfully, tapping fingers on the table rhythmically and giving Lancelot a hard look.

“Well, when you come up with such sage advice, how can I object?” Lancelot shot back, knowing grin at his lips.

“One moon’s cycle?” Guinevere asked, looking for affirmation from Merlin and Arthur at once. 

A beat and Lancelot held his breath, waited as neither man went first, locked gazes in an age-old contest. Guinevere looked at Lancelot steadily, knowing smile on her lips, glint to her eyes, as if she already knew the outcome. Lancelot cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. A quick jerk of her chin told him all he needed to know.

And then Merlin looked down, answering. “Yes. That is time enough to prepare.”

Arthur nodded as well, still exhausted but with fewer lines hewn into his face. “A month,” he affirmed. “Send out the heralds.”

***

Tristan was—wary. Perhaps.

It was hard to tell and she idly wondered if he slept in his armor. He was still dressed as if ready to engage in battle, even when there was no one to fight.

Or else he knew something she didn’t.

“So. How do we start?” she asked, breaking the silence that grew heavy and still between them. This was—unusual. While she’d made it a point to get to know the other knights, superficially, she never spent extended time with any of them. Well, except for Lancelot and that wasn’t entirely of her own choosing.

He looked amused again, as if entertained by her attempts to keep control. Guinevere’s eyes narrowed in displeasure at that. If she would be Queen…their lack of respect was starting to jangle.

“It has a different sound to it. You need to feel its sounds.” 

“Feel its sounds. Helpful,” she said, falling back on dryness.

He cast a _look_ at her and continued: “Mimic me.” He went on to say—something. Something more musical than the long shapes she was used to, shorter but still—complex.

Her first try was abysmal. Second was even worse. On the third his hand moved swiftly, two fingers pressing up into the soft skin under her chin. Her hand automatically caught his wrist, squeezing, other hand at his throat in an instinctual instant.

Tristan didn’t even move, didn’t react at all to the hand squeezing at his throat, like it was nothing and they both knew it, so it was too much of a bother even to react. A quirked eyebrow might have indicated a little respect, though the planes of his face were hard enough.

“You’re accentuating everything.” He pressed two fingers up again and when she tried to speak it cut the sound short.

Guinevere warily released his throat, though her hand stayed clamped around his wrist, hard enough to make other men wince but he just looked attentive. And she wasn’t thinking about the feel of those two fingers on her skin, hard as they were.

Even better for it.

“Say it again.”

His pupils flared, close enough for her to notice, even behind the hair, and he did. Careful and controlled and so very different. She said it again and he pressed and it was—

“Better.” His hand left her chin, only pausing slightly when she didn’t immediately let go, warmth already seeping out of her.

“Again.” Bit out and gruff, but his shoulders relaxed—minutely—and he settled into himself, only watching her with curiosity now, wariness and amusement bleeding into something _else_.

She opened her mouth.

***

The Britons had slowly trickled in, coming in small bands and setting up camps. Already their placement had become a matter of honor and thankfully Merlin was mediating that as best he could. Amazing how such little things meant so much.

Then again, _he’d_ been a leader in the Roman cavalry. No matter the group, these things didn’t change; they just became even more treacherous. 

The Dumnonii were the last to arrive, as to be expected. Few had put up resistance to the idea. Indeed, many seemed to relish the opportunity and even amongst those Merlin assured him had a nefarious agenda it seemed a good time to embarrass him publicly.

He was counting on those tribes leaving unfulfilled in _that_ regard.

Arthur had spent the time arguing himself in circles and avoiding being alone with either Lancelot or Guinevere. Lancelot had been surprisingly easy to avoid, which caused Arthur more pain than he thought it would. He was used to Lancelot in his face, pulling at old wounds and gouging new ones. He was unaccustomed to silence and distance and though it gave him a reprieve, he couldn’t fully sink into it. The weight of expectation was still there—always there—even if Lancelot wouldn’t voice it.

His voice was already present in Arthur’s head, or so it seemed.

Without either he or Guinevere to fill Arthur’s days with frustration, Merlin began meeting with him more often. Arthur didn’t know if Merlin had planned it as such—it wouldn’t surprise him with Merlin’s influence over Guinevere—but their meetings were always quiet, at least. And he was instrumental in tutoring Arthur in the nuances of some of the more obscure tribal customs.

It was a whole different world, dealing with the tribes on such a different footing, one where he no longer had the power to demand, even if he’d been hesitant to use it unless absolutely necessary. And even then didn’t prefer it.

A sense of anticipation had fallen over everyone, from guests who’d stayed far longer than they thought, to Arthur himself. Even he was looking forward to finalizing this, if that’s what it would indeed do. He was trusting Merlin with that and it told him exactly how frustrated he was that he _hadn’t_ questioned the man too closely on how exactly he would accomplish his task.

Not that Merlin would have told him. He was surprisingly adept at side-stepping Arthur’s more pointed questions.

They were enjoying a quiet dinner before the final day of waiting and Arthur could tell the strain of having to stay quiet was pulling at Lancelot. His relentless tapping obviously irritated Guinevere, but she’d been able to keep that under control.

He’d never expected them to go this far when he’d told them to behave. Merlin was practically the only one who talked anymore and he was hardly Vanora in terms of chattiness.

Arthur had to choke back a hysterical laugh at the image of Merlin in an apron, and with the concerned looks Lancelot was throwing at him, they all probably thought he’d lost his mind.

Wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

“Arthur!” Gawain burst in, looking haggard and worn and out of breath. Arthur was standing even before he heard what the man had to say. Shock didn’t even register. No, he’d been _expecting_ this.

***

A loud clash of Britons had congregated, some yelling at one another, others hanging back and watching with amusement. Lancelot could swear he saw Tristan up on top of a roof somewhere, but if the man was observing, he was doing it discreetly.

And it looked like chaos, all manner of men mixing into an incomprehensible mess. Every tribe was represented, if Lancelot could distinguish, and they were all involved in something.

“What is the meaning of this?” Arthur yelled, moving into the center of the group, heedless of all the knives and swords men were using to make a point. Thankfully, Lancelot didn’t have that problem, baring blades with a menacing grin to all around, following Arthur and keeping watch.

At the center of the group were two men, shouting at each other in Britonnic, both red-faced and a breath away from pulling their weapons. Not that their counterparts had wasted any time doing that.

Arthur heedlessly shoved through the crowds, aiming for the two and scaring some of their men into something that resembled control.

Lancelot, however, really didn’t mind the shoves and jabs that were sent his way. Then Arthur couldn’t object to him giving the same and it’d been far too long since he’d gotten a good shot at Britons. The crack of knuckles across one of their jaws was more satisfying than finally getting to fuck Arthur.

Well. He might have exaggerated.

He assumed anyway. Not that he’d been given the chance to do the latter.

“You two, it would appear there’s a mob in the middle of my courtyard and somehow I have the distinct impression that it’s because of you. Now, tell me what’s going on.” Arthur’s appearance had quieted the two and his tone practically vibrated with hostility.

Thus it was no surprise that they both leapt to explain.

“He’s insulting my honor!”

“He’s a damn traitor!”

“One at a time. You,” he said, pointing to the smaller of the two, wearing the more Romanized clothing and hairstyle. Probably one of the southern tribes, then. Lancelot hadn’t encountered him.

“This whoreson jackal knows why the Saxons are here. Tell him, Igenavi. Tell him what you and the rest of your Brigantes did to betray us all.”

Arthur raised an inquiring brow and turned to Igenavi, dressed in distinctive local garb and carrying some serious weaponry. Lancelot counted at least three daggers ‘secreted’ in various places, not counting his sword.

Ah, how trusting men could be.

“I invited them,” Igenavi said, insolent and haughty under Arthur’s gaze, a feat in itself. But wait—he invited the _Saxons_?

“You invited them.” Arthur said it as if he were extremely unimpressed. Or so enraged that he had to shut down everything to keep himself in control.

Two guesses, then.

“And how did I not hear of this?” Arthur demanded.

“We don’t answer to you, Roman,” he snarled, eyes going fierce. “You haven’t truly cared about the defense of Britain for years. You and taking your legions across to Gaul with dreams of your Rule. We had to protect ourselves!”

“They killed one of my knights and you invited them. They tried to kill us all!” Arthur challenged back with a snarl.

“No, just you and her people,” he said with a wave in the direction of Guinevere, at the edge of the fray with Merlin and watching with narrowed eyes. “That’s why they came, to defend against the Woads when you wouldn’t.”

“And as always they grew too powerful for you to control.” Arthur’s voice dropped in timbre, disgust practically pouring off the man, and Lancelot tensed.

Igenavi didn’t say anything to that, doubtless because he couldn’t. It was true and typical of such situations. Or so had been whispered by the locals for years.

He had some brains in his head, then.

“They burned our villages, attacked our people! And you gave them quarter! You’ve betrayed us, Igenavi.”

“Don’t be a fool, Laulus. I wasn’t the only one. We all know the troubles of this island and they offered good protection when our _masters_ wouldn’t. I alone won’t be condemned for this,” he snarled back, dark eyes glinting his rage.

While they were busy accusing one another, Arthur had taken in the scene, all the men and weaponry and was probably considering the possibility of bloodshed if this got out of hand. And they didn’t need more bad blood between these tribes.

Knowing them, they might then turn it into a blood feud or some such nonsense and then this country would _never_ unify, not under Arthur or anyone. Lancelot felt his jaw clench and waited for Arthur to give some signal as to what he wanted to do.

Arthur turned, addressing the crowd that had again joined in the yelling. “Quiet, all of you! Hear me now. This is exactly what I mean to prevent. The Romans, the Saxons, they divide our land, our people. They make us squabble and they make us weak.”

Lancelot didn’t miss the “our.”

And even the two men stopped arguing at that, all attention riveted on Arthur. He was—majestic when he was like this and Lancelot spared a brief admiring glance before again scanning the crowd. 

Arthur could make grand speeches but Lancelot was damn well going to make sure the man kept his pretty little head where it was so that he could think them up.

“Some of you know me, others may not. But you should all know this: I will unite this land and I will protect our people. Under a united front the Saxons have no chance, the Scotti have no chance. We will defend ourselves. Wherever there is an attack, all of Britain will rise up to rid this land of foreign invaders. It is only our division that has let them come so far.”

“You speak of our people, our land. Do you forget that you are a Roman, too? That you held us in chains for so long?” The voice came from somewhere to his right and Lancelot slowly turned, glaring at the crowd, the closest men shifting their eyes away and looking somewhere else.

He felt a thrill of utter satisfaction at that, that he could still inspire fear with a simple look. And if it kept these sniveling dogs at bay, well, all the better.

“It is true I served Rome for many years. But I was born in this land, to one of your people, and it is to this land that I return to offer up my life in service of _all_ Britons.”

Lancelot spotted Merlin standing off, away from the crowd, watching and listening with those crazy-mad eyes. He clasped his ever-present staff loosely between gnarled fingers and didn’t seem to put any weight on it. Lancelot idly wondered why he bothered at all if he didn’t even use it. Probably a power thing, then.

But most noticeably, he had a peculiar expression on his face. 

He was smiling.

The crowd had cooled down, hands not twitching quite so hard for a blade, those already freed being held much more loosely, no more restless murmurings and uncomfortable shifting. If it was Arthur’s purpose, he had calmed them from the sparks of anger of just a few minutes past.

Amazing.

“You speak well, Arthur of Britain.” And that was Merlin, drawing all attention to him. “You speak the truth. All of you have come here to judge this man, to choose a leader, and the time is now.” Lancelot started. There were _plans_ , there was an infernal ceremony a day hence, and Merlin changed it? To now?

Was the old man crazy?

Okay. Stupid question.

“Merlin. I thank you and appreciate your desire to see this to an end. But we have more for them to witness, to use to judge.” Merlin nodded sagely and looked at Arthur with that steady gaze, as if he were trying to communicate something.

“Arthur, these men have seen your true spirit tonight. If they are not convinced by such qualities as you have displayed they will never be convinced. Come. The Council will convene and we will begin our glorious new journey tonight.”

Arthur looked around, took in all the men weighing him, measuring him, low murmurs snaking through the courtyard and around all of them. He nodded once, resolute.

“Tonight,” he affirmed. He looked around to the group, challenging and commanding and everything a king ought to be: “Send for your men. We will do this now, here.”

Arthur slid up to him in the resulting upheaval, eyes glittering a strange light, hand gripping his forearm. “The next spare moment I have, I’m finding you and fucking you on the spot,” he hissed, Sarmatian rolling off his tongue like a sweet curse, taking Lancelot home.

Before he could leave again, Lancelot leaned in, lips peeled back in a snarl. “Moment?” he scoffed, enjoying using the old language. “Hours, Arthur. I’m going to ride you for _hours_.” Arthur’s grip went tight and hard, strong fingers bruising into vulnerable flesh, before he hissed in a breath and was gone, back into the fray.

***

Word traveled quickly and soon the courtyard was a teeming mass of people, now all clustered in their groups. It was almost amusing, the way their clothing was similar but not, separating each into a distinct group that somehow made a cohesive whole.

He could work with this. He could lead these people.

Arthur felt distinctly awkward, like he was being measured, but that had been happening with unfortunate regularity since the first members of the tribes showed up what seemed like _years_ ago, but was only a little more than two months.

There was no organization to this, it was utter chaos, and he couldn’t help the urge to want to place everyone in neat lines so he could get some order around here. The only things keeping him sane were Lancelot, glowering at the Britons like they better affirm Arthur or else, and Merlin who was utterly calm. Guinevere was by his side, looking more fragile than was possible and more assured than he’d seen her in a while.

Too calm. They were both too calm; something was going on with them and Arthur just knew it had to do with his and Guinevere’s—and Lancelot’s, he reminded—plan to make sure that the tribes assented to his rule.

Arthur stepped to the middle of the courtyard and looked around meaningfully, just the sight of him doing so quieting the crowds. For a perverse moment he wondered where his challenger was—if he were really that—from the collation of the western tribes and the Dalriada. 

He’d find out soon enough.

He was acutely conscious of the fact that he had no idea what he was doing. He just put faith in the idea that if he started to make a mess of things Merlin would intervene. He’d been speaking with no preparation all night and all he’d gotten was praise for it, so he supposed he could handle this.

“Everyone. We all know why you’ve come, why you’ve made such long journeys to this place, to this point in history. We have a chance to make something great, to build something together in the spirit of unity. One people, one purpose. I ask you now to make a choice, to choose your leader, to choose your _destiny_.”

At that Merlin caught his eye and nodded. Arthur nodded back to him and gestured for him to continue. 

Merlin stepped forward. “Arthur, before we begin, I ask a favor. Indulge an old man who has brought you a gift, a gift for your hospitality, a gift for your vision.”

Arthur nodded in respectful deference. “Of course, Merlin. I am honored by your presence and your praise.”

Merlin made a gesture and one of his attendants strode out, boldly carrying a small chest, gilt in gold and decorated in the style of the Britons. It was probably worth quite a bit, but odd that he’d give him a chest like this. 

The man held the chest out to Arthur, taking place in front of him as if he meant to display it. 

“In honor of your rule and in anticipation of your reign.” Arthur threw a puzzled look at Merlin, wondering at the bold comment in the face of an uncertain support, but he only smiled kindly with Guinevere giving a discreet nod of encouragement. Arthur stepped forward and grasped the handle, lifting the lid and only pushing it completely open with the shock of the gruesome object it held.

A head.

Merlin had given him a severed head, face twisted in agony, screaming out in its death-throes. He looked up at Merlin shocked, but not nearly with the reaction of the group of leaders. 

Specifically, the leaders of the western tribes, hissing out their displeasure into the murmuring of men.

“Behold, Arthur. The head of Conall Cremhthoinn, son of Niall Noi nGiallach, formerly the leader of the Clann Colmain. I give it as a gift to you to honor your house and as a gesture of my true support.”

Arthur—was at a loss. He glanced to Lancelot, only to find a rueful smile there, mixed with knowing eyes and a posture less tense than he had been in months. Merlin had the same knowing smile, as did Guinevere.

Arthur looked back to his ‘gift’ and with utter surety knew this was the man with whom the tribes had been conspiring. A dangerous game for Merlin to play, risking all-out war with the Scotti, but Arthur recognized its effectiveness from the way the western leaders shrank back, conferring amongst themselves with dim ferocity.

After that the events were a daze. Merlin called for a count, for all the men to represent their tribes, and they did. One after the other called for Arthur, praised his ability to lead men, his skill in battle, his wisdom and worthiness. 

Not a few mentioned Guinevere, as well, a tireless fighter for the united land, though Arthur could tell not all agreed with the sentiment. The Woads were still distrusted by many, especially the northern tribes who’d been their prey for so long.

But to his shock every tribe assented, every tribe proclaimed loyalty, and every tribe pledged to defend Britain, to serve Arthur, and to send their men to his Court to help better rule them all.

***

Insanity was a good word. Perfect word, really, to describe the ensuing chaos of the feast.

Vanora was probably pretty upset, though seemed to have managed well enough. Food was everywhere…which was a good thing since the men were, too. Arthur had even had the presence of mind to dig up some of the old Roman amphorae of wine, though the Britons were drinking it undiluted.

The heathens.

Lancelot knew he walked with a wry smile, not taken well by all, but that would hardly put a halt to his pleasure. Because everything had worked out and even Guinevere had made good on her word—or at least Merlin had—to make sure things went off as planned.

A good night and everyone did have a reason to celebrate. Lancelot snagged some of the pheasant which Vanora had apparently attempted to season the Roman way. A gesture if anything, though the meat was far more aromatic than anything to which Lancelot had become accustomed. And the food had apparently fully embroiled the braver of the tribesmen into tales of Roman buffoonery for entertainment. The southern tribes accepted it as such—probably carefully maintaining cordial ties under a leader they, at least, wholly supported—as the more embittered ones reveled in their mirth.

Arthur was off involved in what was either a sober political discourse or a drinking game. Possibly both. Either way he was surrounded by fawning admirers and positioning sycophants, all of whom Lancelot was determinedly avoiding. The man had the title, he could handle the repercussions. So long as no one was threatening his life, Lancelot was fine sitting back and enjoying the machinations.

Lancelot easily dodged the drunken flailing of one of the attendants and snagged a piece of bread, just enjoying the fact that it wasn’t stale or moldy.

Ah, the simple pleasures of the civilized, sedentary life.

A hand shot out and he gulped and half-choked on a corner, clearing his throat as he was roughly pulled out of the room and into the night.

“What?” he managed to croak, irritated at the sight of his would-be kidnapper.

Guinevere smiled gleefully, utterly enjoying Lancelot’s hacking, hands now on hips and taking in every detail.

“I thought we should speak.”

“It couldn’t wait until I wasn’t about to die from a menacing piece of bread?” he asked, only slightly flustered.

Obviously it was the result of a lack of air flow.

Guinevere smirked, low light twisting across her face. “If you were paying attention you wouldn’t have that problem.”

Lancelot straightened and attempted to get a bit of his dignity back. “Thanks for the advice,” he said tartly. “What did you want again?”

This time she smiled, far too sweetly, and it immediately stiffened Lancelot’s spine. It was stupid to hope that she’d just disappear once she’d put Arthur on the throne and assured herself her country was in good hands.

It could have happened.

But, no, not with this woman standing defiant before him, all exuberant fire and obnoxious persistence. 

“Arthur is King.”

“Thanks for the information. I couldn’t tell by the rollicking festivities on the other side of the wall,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Meaning, I’ll be Queen.”

Guinevere was acting exceedingly dumb and Lancelot just knew it was showing in his disbelieving look. Not that he was at all against that.

She sighed and tapped her foot, like _he_ was the slow one, and that—that was so irritatingly typical of this damnable woman. 

“So, we might want to talk about Arthur,” she said at last, as if explaining things to a very small, very stupid child.

“Oh. That.” Dismissive worked well with her—if you could consider raising all her hackles working well, which Lancelot very much did. He tried to indulge in it as often as possible. It did get such lovely results.

“Yes. That.” Already her patience was wearing thing. Excellent. Hopefully she would leave him be and he could wander around until Arthur was alone enough to jump.

It was all about priorities.

Guinevere looked at him as if she expected something from him, still tapping that damn foot like he was the one who’d interrupted her and was now wasting her time.

Insufferable bitch.

“I’m not giving up. And especially not to _you_.”

She shook her head and smiled bitterly. “You’re a prick, Lancelot. At least that never changes.” Though there was little heat to it, more of a statement of fact really, and one with which he couldn’t disagree.

And why would he desire to do so?

“Happy to oblige,” he shot back with a mocking bow.

“Might you have noticed I never asked you to give up?”

“That’s because I thwarted your efforts.”

“And arrogant.”

“Preemptive, even. I always think ahead.”

He got a disbelieving snort for that one…and that definitely wasn’t ladylike. He narrowed his eyes as his earlier good mood and his enjoyment at annoying her really started becoming but a distant memory, fading into nothing but a whisper in his mind. “If not that then what _did_ you have to say to me.”

“Well, I already called you an arrogant prick so that eliminates roughly half the possible subject matters about which we could converse.”

“It must be difficult being so slow. My heart _aches_ for you.” Exaggerated kindness was fun with Guinevere; it got her all offended and huffy.

“Bastard. Can’t make anything easy. You like turmoil. You _thrive_ on it.”

“Not that I’ve had much chance to experience anything but,” he replied, acid again coating his tongue and dripping through his words.

She sighed and looked away, put upon. Lancelot just rolled his eyes. The lady in distress wouldn’t work on him and further, it wasn’t like he was so invested in her happiness. Not like Arthur seemed to be, though whether that was just his usual guilt about not fulfilling everyone’s grand dream or something specific to Guinevere Lancelot did not know.

She visibly calmed herself and looked back to him, something manipulative and knowing lurking behind her eyes. “We’ve established you won’t give up; neither will I.”

“That leaves us with precious few options, then. So, single combat at dawn?”

She smiled a wolf-smile, considering. “As attractive as that option may be, I doubt Arthur would take to it.”

No reason not to dig a little deeper, really: “Already playing the dutiful wife, are you?”

“And you the trusted advisor.”

“Better than catamite, I suppose.”

That actually spurred a low laugh from her, and surprisingly from this angle she wasn’t entirely repellant. Rather more like she was when they first met, actually, back when she was still deciding who would be the most susceptible to her wiles and her wishes.

Her posture relaxed, shoulders easing down, and she wrapped her arms loosely about herself. “Then we have even fewer options. One, really.”

He raised an eyebrow in inquiry and she frowned a little, like he should know.

“Why Guinevere, are you offering yourself to me?”

She burst out laughing, mocking and appreciative, as if he’d said something so unbelievable, so bold as to garner her respect.

It wasn’t that absurd, if one thought about it.

Guinevere shook her head, definite lightness around her mouth now, though nothing had been resolved. Technically. Though she did seem more approachable and less barbed now that she’d finally got what she wanted.

Half of what she wanted.

“I wouldn’t touch you if I were dying and you were my only salvation.” Never. Mind. She was still a shrieking bitch and Lancelot still didn’t like her.

“You seem to have made that abundantly clear.” The way she studied him made him tense unpleasantly and uncontrollably, as if she were gauging something, measuring something, her eyes ghostly fingers running all over him, learning every shadowy curve and hard plane.

“Would you like to?” she asked shortly, injecting some of that flintiness he’d seen with Arthur into her tone.

Lancelot looked at her steadily, giving away nothing and getting nothing. They were two statues in an eternal contest, only to be worn down by the elemental.

“I had something far more…equitable in mind,” she added when she realized she wouldn’t get anything out of him. Good to know she could recognize when she was fighting a losing battle.

“Really.”

“Indeed.” Twisted, secretive smile and despite himself Lancelot itched to know what ran through that pretty, if annoying, head of hers.

He opened a hand and gestured for her to continue, well aware of how very patronizing it was and not caring a whit. 

Guinevere merely smiled—amused—and nodded graciously. “I thought, perhaps, we might learn to share.”

Said as if it were just that easy, too, and Lancelot furrowed his brow. Sharing meant sharing with her and knowing Guinevere, well, she didn’t strike him as the trustworthy type.

“Share,” he said flatly. “Since when do you share anything?”

“Since I want what I want and that unfortunately includes you. Believe me, if there were another way that didn’t involve Arthur condemning one of us for killing the other, I’d look into that option. But seeing as you haven’t offered up anything useful,” and here she paused for effect, expecting him to remain silent while sadistically rubbing it in, “then we’re confined to my suggestion.”

Lancelot mentally reviewed the options. Killing her wouldn’t work; Arthur would be unhappy. Sending her away—if that were possible—wouldn’t work; the Woads would be unhappy _and_ Arthur would be unhappy, much as Lancelot hated to admit it. The man was such a slave to the desires of others.

So he couldn’t kill her and he couldn’t get rid of her. That left tolerating her…and that left a sour taste in his mouth. But one that he’d swallow for Arthur’s sake.

“Fine,” he said abruptly, startling her into wariness with his decisiveness.

“Fine,” she parroted, still suspicious.

“Arthur wouldn’t like it if I killed you and you don’t seem to be going anywhere. There’s not much else to do.”

“Fine. Good, then.”

“But don’t expect me to be nice to you. Or to acquiesce or subject myself to your whims. Though that may be one of your fantasies, it _won’t_ be happening.”

“Like I would ever—”

Lancelot tsked and cut her off with an appraising review of her body, detailing and forcing her to the realization that he was a man and she was a woman and furthermore, Lancelot knew it. It was a glance women could _feel_ and she was definitely a woman, deny it though he tried. 

Her narrowed eyes said as much, though her breathing had sped up. Tellingly so.

With a final smirk at that, letting her know he knew, he nodded in exaggerated deference and took his leave, back to the warmth and the good cheer of men luxuriating in a newfound sense of security.

***

Annoyed, she moved back to the party, deliberately losing track of Lancelot and that damned swagger of his. Glancing around she got a few nods of greeting, a few too many frank appraisals, and she found far too few of her comrades for comfort.

Must have all withdrawn to their rooms, then. Smart, really. So many of these men were still so wary of who she was, where she came from, and the long history of Woad raids into territory that did not belong to them.

Ignoring the tyranny of the Romans and the need for things like supplies, of course. History was so convenient when it was so selectively remembered.

Viventius was—performing and his listeners seemed far too gone to know the subject of his song. Not a bad voice, if she ignored all else. Still far too wide-eyed, though the night’s events would give him material enough for a lifetime. She should have demanded payment for this kind of access.

Granted, glowing accounts of Arthur spread far and wide would do well enough.

Hmm.

An unusual sense of stillness in the midst of calamity caught her eye and she turned to find the odd pairing of Merlin and Tristan sitting at a far table, quietly observing one another. Or, for all she knew, having some sort of mute conversation with only facial tics and changes in the depression of the air as a means of communication.

Really, it wasn’t as far-fetched with those two.

Her lessons with Tristan had borne fruit; she’d been able to grasp one of Gawain and Galahad’s conversations easily enough, though Gawain dumping horseshit right in front of Galahad had gone a long way to clarify some things.

Still, she counted it as progress. She’d not be engaging in any deeply philosophical debates in Sarmatian…but she highly doubted that was Lancelot’s usual subject anyway. Far too tame for the man, nor did he have the patience.

And Tristan was—Tristan. He could both soothe and fluster simultaneously and Guinevere liked their back and forth more than she’d thought.

Seemed an obvious thing to join the two men, then. One she’d known forever and one she wanted to know. Possibly not the best combination but still better than the Briganti who’d been eyeing her.

She sat down without invitation. Neither man commented on it, though she did get some looks from members of the more southern tribes. She tossed aggressive smirks at them and they stopped looking.

Grabbing a mug was an easy thing and she downed it in one go, relaxing back now. “A good night,” she said simply, getting two nods in agreement. “Merlin, your plan went off without fail. I am indebted.”

A familiar glint in his eyes warmed her, reminder of days past and safety. “As always,” he said knowingly. “And I had assistance, of course.”

Guinevere raised an eyebrow. Unusual of Merlin, to pass on praise. “Really?”

Merlin nodded across from him, both silent thanks and acknowledgement, and Guinevere looked to Tristan, both eyebrows raised.

“I was unaware you two—knew one another.”

“Chance meeting. You know how these things go.” Meaning not chance at all…and Merlin was being devious again. Not that it should surprise her. It did on Tristan’s end, though.

“This is not going around Arthur?” she asked pointedly, pleased smile taking the heat out of what could have been an accusation of no less than treason.

“More like earning Merlin’s trust. Faithless, your Woad lot.”

Guinevere grinned, chuckling appreciatively. “Yes, trust is so very important to Arthur. Good thinking. Might be wise to keep it to ourselves, of course.”

“But of course. What’s trust without a fair bit if duplicity?” Merlin asked genially, actually smiling like he _might_ be enjoying himself. Might.

He nodded decisively. “But now it’s your turn. And it’s my turn for bed. The old and weary deserve some rest.”

She snorted and shook her head, watching as he gathered himself and his staff, standing more slowly than he used to. Maybe that old comment wasn’t so off target, after all. But then he tapped his staff and winked at her and she was back in the past again, around campfires and being told of greatness hard to imagine.

His departure snapped her back and she called after him. He returned, a question in his eyes, and she elaborated in hushed tones. “And what of the Clann Colmain? Having a headless leader isn’t likely to endear us to them.”

He shushed her with his hands, a look both pleased and predatory entering his eyes. “Not to worry about the messy business of a blood feud, my Queen. There are always others who seek power for themselves, even amongst one’s family.” He nodded in respect and swiftly left, making his earlier slowness seem but a product of drink and the late hour.

“Family?” she asked, bending toward Tristan and catching sight of something like bemusement. 

“Perhaps it’s better I never knew mine, the way those closest can betray you. Not that I was given a choice in the matter,” he amended with more of that _something_.

She nodded and let that topic rest. Which only brought her to another. “Have you decided what you’ll now do?” she asked, genuinely curious and reticent to see him go.

“Don’t want to lose your teacher?” he asked slyly, slim smile appearing again.

She tossed her hair. “Like you’re such a good one.”

“You do have the primary foundation of any attempt to learn a language.”

“Yes, the nasty words are so helpful. Especially with you lot. I think the Romans are more inventive, though.”

“I wasn’t with our people very long. There are probably some I missed.”

“Such a gap in my education. It’s really quite unforgivable. I might have to banish you.”

“That didn’t take long.”

“Well, I have to find my perks _somewhere_.”

“Isn’t that what a _lady_ is?” he asked pointedly, getting a swift kick for that one. Cheeky bastard.

Not that it worked so well when he _caught_ her foot. And gave her that blank look she recognized as haughty superiority. Effective, too.

Her glare somewhat paled in comparison.

“You dodged my question,” she said pointedly, trying to wriggle her foot out of his grasp. His hand slipped higher, getting a better grip around her ankle, the heat of his hand bleeding into her skin and making her shift for an entirely different reason.

Released abruptly and he straightened, going back to his mug and looking away. “I haven’t thought on it.”

“Galahad and Gawain are planning their departure. Will you travel with them?” she pursued.

He looked back at her calmly, letting his earlier words stand. 

“It’s gotten into your heart, hasn’t it? My land?” 

Still nothing.

“It will do that, if you let it.” A long pause and she searched his face for something. She knew not what but…“You should stay.”

He blinked at her, assessing. “I’m a scout and we’re not moving,” he repeated, mocking lilt. “Should I stay, Guinevere?”

She was proud she only started slightly at her name passing his lips. In all their conversations he’d never once used it. Not until now.

“Arthur could use your talents.” And now she was dodging the real question…but if he wasn’t bold enough…

Slight turn of his head a question and a plan had been brewing already. All she’d needed were the right pieces.

“Do you like Viventius?” she asked suddenly, sitting up and nodding over to the young man, still valiantly battling the dying crowds.

His narrowed eyes told her she actually caught him off guard, or had done something unexpected, and the thrill wasn’t insignificant.

“No.”

“Why ever not? He’s so talented.”

“He’s youthful and foolish.”

“Got your name wrong, did he?” she asked, smiling kindly. He didn’t respond. “That can be fixed easily enough.”

Now he was assessing her, frankly, gaze sweeping over her features and looking for…something. They both did that a lot.

“I was thinking of having him travel, you know. Keep up morale.”

“Travel where?” Suspicion bled into his voice now. Catching up, then.

“Oh, around,” she said airily, gesturing expansively. His eyes followed her hand for a brief moment before returning to her face. And narrowing his eyes as everything clicked.

“You want to send a Roman bard and a Sarmatian knight of the Roman army into the most hostile areas to sing Arthur’s praises.” Well, when he said it like that…

“You wouldn’t have to sing. Though I suppose you could, if you like.”

“Have you been talking with Galahad?”

“No. He seems to run the other way whenever I’m around. It’s the oddest thing,” she said, false wonder snaking through her voice.

He let brief amusement show before he went back to his standard of suspicious consideration. She let some modicum of the truth show in her eyes, just to give him a sense of her sincerity. He looked back steadily, taking everything she had to offer and making her want to give even _more_.

“You don’t trust them? Your own tribes?”

She leaned forward, lowering her tones again. “This has proved to me that I can’t. You agree with me. And you’d be able to employ your uniquely-suited skills.”

“He would want to visit with Arthur, every so often.” She nodded her acceptance of that, amenable to both of them, really. 

Tristan took that in. “Arthur would not like it.”

“Is that agreement?”

He flicked his hair out of his face, looking at something far off…and looked back with more resolve than she’d seen previously. Excellent.

“Arthur will not like it.” Changed tense and _yes_. Things were so much better when she got her way, why couldn’t people see this?

Her voice lowered even more, eyes burning truth into Tristan’s. “Viventius is a scared boy who speaks not a word of the native tongue. He will need protection. And I hear there’s not a half-bad tutor about.”

***

Lancelot yawned. Arthur had disappeared, most everybody else was passed out in the dirt, so it was definitely time to retire.

A quick bolt of alarm alerted him to danger right before he was unceremoniously plowed into the wall, a hot tongue snaking up his neck, Arthur soft and hard and rubbing against him so very nicely.

He didn’t even think before relaxing into it, groaning and turning his head to meet that tongue, diving in to taste mead and something sweet and even some residual spiciness from the meal.

He broke away, panting. “Why is everyone running into me—mmm…” Not very attractive, but Arthur was the one sticking his tongue down Lancelot’s throat so he didn’t really seem to mind. And there didn’t seem so much more to think about anyway…

Hands. Hands were pulling at clothing and fumbling and he hissed out shock when Arthur got a hand to the front of his trousers and _pressed_.

Muffled laughter against his neck, a wet lick there, and Lancelot was practically goo in this man’s arms and he didn’t even care about dignity or pride or any of that bullshit when he could have _this_.

Arthur kissed him again, easy crane of his neck, looping arms around to travel along the back side of him, laughing when Lancelot jumped at his unexpected pinch.

“Like that?” Husky and low and enough to get Lancelot so hard he was ready to go off just at the sound of that voice dripping sex into his ear. 

And Arthur was being—playful. Which was—weird enough to note.

“You’ve been drinking mead.”

More laughter, along with a shift and slow thrust, connecting them at just the _perfect_ spot and oh, had he been talking?

“The Iceni brought some of their homemade.” 

“Which is why I’m a moment from coming against a wall in the corridor,” Lancelot gasped, gripping Arthur’s shoulders and rolling with the motion that was an inch from paradise, screw all his religious scorn.

“Oh, don’t worry. I know exactly where everything should go,” Arthur answered, pulling away—pulling away?—and prodding Lancelot down the hall to a mercifully close door. Which he promptly pushed Lancelot up against and good, great, here was good, too.

Lancelot wound around him again, spreading his legs and gripping Arthur’s tunic. He’d thankfully lost the cuirass sometime and oh, this was so planned. Planned and Lancelot did not care so long as Arthur kept doing that dragging-slide thing against him.

He let his head fall back against something hard and gasped like a three-day battle, like a week-long ride, and fuck Guinevere, he was going to enjoy this for as long as Arthur would have him.

“Might want to go inside,” Arthur murmured, wet tongue flicking into his ear and further melting any kind of brain activity.

“Huh?”

Laughing again and ooh, that felt good against him, Arthur’s hands leaving to go somewhere—oh. Door. Open. Room.

His room. Excellent.

Falling over to the bed was easy, stripping off clothes was easier, and rolling around naked against Arthur was just about the easiest thing he’d ever done. 

Of course it would take him fifteen years to get here.

But it was hardly useful to think of that when Arthur was pinning his arms to the bed and _grinding_ down into him, cocks pressed deliciously together, their breaths coming short and fast.

Lancelot wrapped his legs around Arthur, urging him on with a well-timed buck up, and it wasn’t the most refined sex but it was _Arthur_ that was pressed against him and the thought was enough to make him jerk, so he probably wasn’t good for anything more complex anyway.

Not that Arthur seemed to mind, taking Lancelot’s mouth again and shoving his tongue in, down, around. Lancelot sucked on it with glee, moving as much as Arthur’s weight would let him, his legs squeezing Arthur and trying to pull him down harder, faster, more. Any way he could get it.

“Someone’s eager,” Arthur taunted, biting at Lancelot’s lips, chin, neck.

Lancelot threw his head back to give Arthur better access. “Fifteen fucking years you fucking jackass—yes, do that _again_ —and you made me wait and—fuck!—fuck other people. Were there when I did,” he panted, hands balled into fists against the bed, Arthur’s still holding his wrists down in that implacable grip.

“I didn’t—”

Cut him off with a twist of his head, mouth magically finding Arthur’s again and brutalizing his already bruised lips. “I. Don’t. Care. Years, Arthur. You and your stupid—where did you _learn_ —and you could have died and _fuck_!” Lancelot tried to replicate Arthur’s slide-thrust thing to no avail. He had no leverage and he was going to die. He would die and Arthur better fucking—

“I swear, on my honor, if you don’t quit dicking around and hurry this shit up—”

Arthur—the bastard—laughed. “You have a filthy mouth, did you know that?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the drunk and desperate one here?” he asked, hyper aware of the plaintive note in his voice and so long as Arthur’s cock was burning into his own? Miles beyond caring about that.

“I have a strong,” gasping pause, “constitution.” But Lancelot had struck something because Arthur stopped playing and started thrusting in earnest, each movement pushing Lancelot back into the bed and sparking heat along every inch of his skin, all centered in his absolutely aching—

“Fuck. Yes!” And he growled into Arthur’s mouth, legs probably crushing him, hips thrusting frenzied as the pleasure finally crested and broke through him, stealing all his air and finding its release hot between them. 

Arthur moaned in response, body gone hard and rigid, Lancelot absently noting the heat of his release as he floated along.

It was only when Arthur’s weight really began to be oppressive that he came back to himself, pushing him over and following, sprawled against him.

“That’s good to know,” he mused, rubbing his nose along Arthur’s chest, mouthing at his skin.

“Hmm?” Arthur was halfway to oblivion already and the thought made Lancelot snort.

“Constitution,” he answered back, watching as Arthur smiled, ran a soothing hand through Lancelot’s utterly ruined hair, and dropped off.

***

The strain pounded through his legs, muscles clenching and screaming at him, jarring sounds of battle engaged on all sides.

His _element_. Fighting a second nature to him now, easy and effortless, no longer a weight to pull him down. Friends and comrades tested in fire around him, worry, yes, but knowledge. Knowledge of their capabilities, of their enemies, of everything that went into battle.

Uncertainty, always. But too the nagging realization that they would win, that it was inevitable, history on their side.

As if they’d done exactly this before.

The Saxons ebbed and flowed around him, falling, screaming…stopping. And Lancelot was with him suddenly, whirling around, engaged just as fully in the dance, delighted smile on his face. Like it wasn’t really happening, he wasn’t really there.

A marvel to behold and Arthur had to fight to keep his focus, Lancelot stole so much energy from everywhere. Guinevere there, too, suddenly. Fierce and bright, like Lancelot but different. The three of them working in unison, cutting bright swathes through the enemy, bringing hope with blood and greatness with tears. Masters of that, accepting it with knowledge and deeming it worthwhile.

And then it was done, everyone fallen who would be, breathing the heavy scent of blood and smoke and tar into a resounding victory. Lancelot and Guinevere, painted red and not so distinct now, celebrating with fierce smiles and raised fists.

Quick gasp and he was up, tangling in something, pulled back down again, trying to breathe, feeling the bone-deep exhaustion even now.

“Arthur—what?” Mumbled from behind…Lancelot. Clinging hands sliding across slick skin, pulling at him again, into the strength of his embrace.

Arthur breathed out, once. It didn’t go like this, but then he’d never woken _to_ this.

“Go to sleep,” Lancelot mumbled again, sliding lips over tired shoulders. “You’ll need your strength.” Amusement there and that meant he was more awake than he pretended.

“Will I?” he asked, smile lacing through the dark.

“Count on it,” he answered, hand going ‘round his arm and anchoring there, held steadfast. Arthur relaxed back, feeling Lancelot again melt against him.

There were worse places to be.

***

The horizon had only the lightest tinge when she slipped over to Lancelot’s rooms, finding Arthur’s empty and knowing what to expect. There was no sharp pang of surprise this time, finding them together, entwined so, Arthur lightly sleeping and Lancelot—Lancelot forgoing that in favor of watching Arthur. Watching him with a look so full of awe and such painful surety. It was utter devotion on the most stubborn of men, and Guinevere felt that look strike through her, felt a kindling of kinship.

She knew that—twice now—and on Lancelot it was devastating.

Guinevere entered fully, not bothering to conceal herself at all, the scrape as she secured the door loud in the silence.

A look back at the bed showed Arthur’s training fully in evidence, eyes wide with that conflicted _want_ , that intensity that let her walk over, that let her accept Lancelot here because she knew Arthur wanted her, too.

He didn’t move to cover himself—Lancelot didn’t move at all—but he did lever himself up, a note of desperation in his voice. “Guinevere…”

“Shhh,” she cut him off, hands going to his face, thumbs pressing at his mouth. He quieted, but still held the look of one walking to his own execution.

“If there is one thing I will teach you,” she said kindly, hands already working at her clothes, Arthur’s eyes trained on them fixedly, “it will be to lock the door.” The knife strapped to her leg was a trickier thing and Arthur shouldn’t be so surprised. As if she would walk around unarmed.

Climbing over and straddling him was easy, a whisper of a memory making her smile, Arthur’s hands at her waist making her smile more. She could already feel him hard against her, nothing between them now, nothing to shield them from the heat of the other.

She took his mouth, then, sighing into his response, noting the slightly altered taste—not purely Arthur here. Probably never would be again. But she could accept that now.

Guinevere pulled away before she drowned, allowed him to distract her, consume her. “My king,” she said intently, raising herself and sinking down onto him, capturing his heat inside her and finally completing that yearning that had been calling to her ever since he’d taken her in his arms and showed her all the contradictions possible to man.

Arthur hissed, fingers tightening on her hips, and the sound only made her more aware of the silence from the other side of the bed, calling her over. She did not look.

Her arms went round his shoulders, feeling the scars that still tingled at her fingertips, arching her neck and moving in a rhythm that caught her, burned inside her, urged her on.

She grinned wickedly, gathering hands on his chest and pushing hard, delighting in his grunt as she held him down, threw back her head again, baring teeth and moving faster. Even in his position his hands tried to mold her to him, take some of that control, and she laughed at the effort, resisting his strength.

Arthur eventually stopped trying, accepting _something_ , hands moving along her skin, finding sensitive patches in the hollows of her hips, insides of her arms. She gasped and _twisted_ when he found a nipple, her groan echoed. Clever fingers finally stole to where they were joined, unrelenting caress too good to make her shrug it off.

Instead she rode it, the feeling of him jerking inside her, fingers playing her expertly, intensely aware of the little mewling sounds she was making and uncaring somehow. A final twist of Arthur’s fingers and a hard lunge down and she tensed, shivering pleasure swirling up her spine, making her shake and clench around him, breath sticking in her throat, everything pulsing red and hot.

Arthur cried out his release, coming with a furrowed brow and bitten lip, both of them shaking, muscles tensing against one another.

Dropping down to rest forehead to forehead, sharing air, was solemn in a way it never had been. Arthur caught her lips in a soft kiss, wrapping arms about her and shifting her over, turning with her.

He brushed hair out of her face and looked like he wanted to say something, but then he tensed and stilled, Guinevere curious right until she saw the hand trail along Arthur’s hip, Lancelot appear over his shoulder, running a tongue up Arthur’s neck and behind his ear.

But Lancelot’s eyes were on her, dark and glassy. As she’d intended. And why fight the urge?

“Enjoy yourself?” she asked, letting her mouth curve into a sensuous smile and rolling herself up against Arthur’s body, skin tantalizing skin, Arthur’s eyes closing on a groan.

His hand had found Arthur’s nipple and he grinned wickedly as he pinched it, briefly biting at Arthur’s shoulder before grinning at her again. “You’ve always been so talented at putting on a show,” he said, the bite in his voice muted by the way he was pressing himself into Arthur.

“Since you’ve known me so very long,” she snorted, shifting again.

Arthur groaned again and opened his eyes, turning his head back to catch Lancelot’s mouth while his fingers slid across her stomach.

“I’m trapped between two menaces,” he muttered, the good humor in his tone wiping out all implication of a complaint.

Guinevere shifted her knee between his legs, pressing delicately _up_ and smiling at his shiver. Lancelot looked decidedly pleased with that.

“We’re not fighting,” she pointed out helpfully, leaning over and biting at his chin.

Arthur turned his head again, catching her lips with his own teeth quickly before breaking away. “I never had _this_ in mind.”

Lancelot laughed lowly into Arthur’s ear, fingers tripping down his chest. “Now, now Arthur. It’s about time you get into the spirit of compromise,” he said distinctly, teeth tugging at Arthur’s ear.

“Get into something, anyway,” Guinevere offered, drenched in sweetness and enjoying Arthur’s expression—a mix between horror at what he’d done and undeniable interest in the proceedings.

“If you’re _up_ for it, of course,” Lancelot said, rubbing into Arthur and looking a little frayed at the edges. Guinevere enjoyed the sight immensely. She had the feeling this would lead to the most useful information she’d yet collected about the man.

Arthur stilled at the barb. And then abruptly turned and flattened Lancelot to the bed, attacking his mouth with more force than she’d expected, their teeth clacking together audibly.

Lancelot had had _years_ to learn all Arthur’s weak points. It was definitely time she started catching up.

***

This—wasn’t what he’d thought of when he’d assented to ruling Britain.

“My lord, his cattle run rampant. Just last week they broke through my fence and ate some of my fruit.”

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore Lancelot’s bright presence to his left. The man was standing, watching, and even Arthur could feel his mirth.

“That is a falsehood! My cows didn’t break anything; you never mend your fences!” the other man answered, face heating up.

Lancelot shifted slightly, hips rolling, and Arthur found his attention utterly distracted. A shock considering the riveting tale being described in front of him.

“I can bring in twenty men to swear oaths to prove it!”

A thoughtful hand went to his chin, rubbing over his beard, and—Arthur could see—hiding a smile.

“That doesn’t change that you killed my property!”

Lancelot sent a sly look his way, smirk just tingeing the corners of his mouth, letting Arthur know he was watching. Arthur felt the heat of that gaze crawl under his clothes, made sure to turn back to the arguing men, to at least appear like he cared about cattle and fruit and mending fences.

“They were destroying my crop!”

“All right. I think I’ve got a good grasp of the situation.” The two men deflated immediately, both looking at him with hope in their eyes. Funny how good that felt after so long being looked at only with despair or fear.

“Dilau, you border him to one side. Whose plot is to the other?”

“It is fallow, my lord.” Excellent.

“Well, then. Move your cattle enclave to that side. Barrivendi and his kin will help you. Barrivendi, mend your fences. Dilau and his kin will help you. As for the cow and the fruit…consider it an even swap.”

Two large sets of eyes looked back at him, like something so simple was unheard of, and Lancelot’s amusement pulsed to his side. Arthur clenched his fists so as to keep them from doing anything…untoward.

Arthur remembered his audience and smoothly raised an eyebrow. “Problems?”

“No, my lord.”

“No, my lord.”

“Good. You may take your leave.”

The two walked out with choruses of thank yous and once the doors were shut Lancelot finally gave voice to that which was boiling inside of him.

His laugh was good to hear, smile good to see, infectious though it was, and Arthur knew he must have a stupid grin on his face.

“Is there anything you don’t protect?” Lancelot asked, insolence somewhat softened by the good humor clinging to him.

“Not fruit, apparently.”

Lancelot looked at him with glad eyes and grinned, wholly without artifice. “You can’t have enjoyed that as much as it seemed.”

Arthur’s lips curved of their own will. “It is oddly satisfying to actually resolve something.”

Lancelot just shook his head and breathed out another laugh. “We’re going to have to set up regional courts for you. Let the magistrates handle the petty things.”

Arthur made a noncommittal noise and rubbed a hand over his mouth. Dipped his eyes in a way he knew Lancelot knew—

Vindicated with a hard body climbing on top of him but an instant later, tongue stealing its way up Arthur’s chin only to have teeth latch onto his bottom lip.

Arthur relaxed and opened his mouth, settling into the kiss, getting a hand into curly hair and tugging, angling, chasing oblivion.

Lancelot broke away and shifted on top of him purposefully, the precariousness of their position the last thing on Arthur’s mind, and this really _wasn’t_ comfortable, everyday armor too thick between them. Not that he would complain about muscled thighs trapping him, silken heat pushing _in_.

“Dislike the set-up, don’t you?” Lancelot asked, thought coming out of _nowhere_ , but—yes. That was the little itch nagging at him.

Arthur shrugged, not thinking about it, the two men kneeling before him, Arthur the only one seated. He concentrated instead on getting hands on hips and shifting Lancelot closer.

“Arthur, Arthur. You will have to accept the kingly trappings. People _expect_ it.”

“And here I thought I’d won by doing exactly what people _didn’t_ expect,” he murmured easily, leaning forward for another taste of that delectable mouth.

Lancelot snorted but allowed it, tongue chasing into Arthur’s mouth without pretense or remorse. Nipped at lips and teeth before maddeningly pulling away again, chair creaking ominously. “Merlin wants a crowning.”

Arthur groaned, dropping chin to chest, only to sigh contentedly when brusque hands carded carefully through his hair.

“I take it that wouldn’t be—pleasing to you.” Careful buck of hips stole Arthur’s breath and it took too much energy just to keep that back, couldn’t even begin to address the question.

“We could always hide in the woods,” Lancelot said lowly, mouth a tantalizing promise so close to his own, wry amusement there calling Arthur to rashness.

“I could live with that.” Smashed their mouths together on Lancelot’s sharp bark of laughter, stealing away that brightness, claiming heat and light and contentment for himself. 

Maddeningly, Lancelot pulled back once again, chair pathetically groaning like a jilted lover. Arthur could relate.

“First priority?” Lancelot looked at him like he was actually expecting an answer.

Well, then. Setting up regional courts, consolidating tribute, reinforcing forts in the southeast, training these sad warriors into something resembling a fighting force…

The weight of Lancelot’s expectation swept over him. Arthur couldn’t do much but stare at his already bruised lips, mind wiped completely blank.

That mouth curled into some kind of smirk, quirking upwards, breaking the spell. Arthur looked up and met flashing eyes. “Engage a better craftsman.”

Lancelot’s mouth came in hard and fast and Arthur rocked back, hands reaching out to grip shoulders, raw sound of splintering wood not enough to tear him away from that quick, distracting mouth.

Not a bad idea.

***

The horses were whickering restlessly and Galahad seemed too strained to be much good at calming them. Lancelot supposed the idiot never would learn to keep his emotions under control.

As if _he_ could criticize on that point.

Gawain’s hand was the one that calmed them down, speaking softly in a language that dominated Lancelot’s dreams. And that he heard little of these days.

“You’re always welcome here,” Arthur spoke then, resolved and regal. The decisiveness of the past weeks had brought a whole new and infinitely more fun batch of troubles along, and though he wasn’t as uncertain about his role, Arthur still worried. He probably always would.

The lines around his eyes looked good on him now, though, almost like they’d grown with Arthur, like they were an outward sign that he was ready to take on a responsibility he hadn’t coveted for so very long, after all.

“And what would we do here? Can’t kill Woads anymore.” And when _Galahad_ echoed his thoughts…there was just no reason to go on. He might as well end it here.

A ghost of a smile traced across Arthur’s face, swept away by the brisk wind and carried off to the nowhere of this land.

“What he means to say is that we thank you for the offer,” Gawain said pointedly, strapping the last of his gear to his horse. They’d ride to the nearest port and hopefully find a ship going in their direction. Which was pretty likely considering they were at the edge of the fucking world.

But at least they’d have safe passage, even if the stories coming out of the collapsing Empire were true. Served Rome right anyway. Finally got too bloated and was choking on its own girth. 

There was a special kind of irony in that. And Lancelot would never apologize for his dark pleasure, even when it still pained Arthur to hear it.

Finally finished packing, they approached for one last farewell. Gawain took Arthur in a warrior’s clasp, nodding solemnly. “You kept us alive. For that I thank you.”

“You kept yourselves alive. And I did what any commander would.” Bullshit. And Arthur knew it.

“You did more. You’re a great man, Arthur, King of the Britons.” Arthur didn’t respond to that, smiled tightly and nodded graciously. He wore an almost wistful expression, like he was reaching into the past and seeing the boys they’d all used to be.

Gawain shook his head ruefully when he reached Lancelot. He couldn’t help but smirk in response, clasping Gawain’s forearm and keeping silent. Gawain respected that as well and was soon off and mounting his horse, waiting for Galahad to say his farewells.

Tristan and Guinevere had said goodbyes earlier, leaving Arthur and Lancelot to do this alone. Lancelot still didn’t understand why Tristan was staying, but then he never did get on so well with him. 

Galahad lingered, looking at Lancelot with something uncomprehending in his eyes. “And if we should come across a tribe that asks after their son Lancelot, what should we say?” he asked, more serious than at any time Lancelot had seen him.

Ah, so that was it. He couldn’t see how Lancelot had made his choice. But he didn’t understand; that had been easy. Lancelot had always preferred what he could touch, feel. And Galahad was off chasing a ridiculous dream. 

Maybe that was one lesson he _would_ learn. Not that Lancelot was holding out hope of course.

“Tell them the truth. Tell them the son they knew died in the heart of Briton, that he made a _choice_ to fight for what he believed.”

Galahad pressed his lips together and nodded shortly, and then he too was off. And that was that. The end of an era.

And Lancelot stood, alone with Arthur, unforgiving chill sweeping over them both, watching as two of their closest rode off to finally find that for which they had so longed.

Lancelot couldn’t stand the oppressive silence: “For all his idiocy, I think I’m actually going to miss Galahad,” he mused.

Arthur looked slyly over at him, both disapproval and restrained humor mixed up in his eyes. Lancelot grinned back cheekily. 

“I’m serious. For all that he knocked things over and refused to wear proper trousers, he could be entertaining. Granted, that might be nostalgia speaking. It’s probably not so true if I remember all the projectile vomiting and bad stitches. Ugh, now I am thinking of that. Never mind. Good riddance.”

“If it reassures you, Merlin seems convinced they’ll return.”

Lancelot looked at Arthur frankly. “Did the pig tell him this?”

Arthur actually smiled, his eyes lightening, hair tousling in the wind. “Actually, I believe it’s called a piglet.”

“Oh, well, if you insist on being meticulous.”

Arthur smiled again—a rare sight and one Lancelot relished—and then squinted off into the distance. “What is that?”

Looked like a traveling party. Britons, definitely. Armed, probably. But posing no immediate threat.

That didn’t stop Arthur, of course. “Were we expecting guests?” he asked, almost to himself.

Lancelot shrugged. “No. But it’s not like Guinevere’s good about telling me things.”

“And I thought you two were getting along.”

“Yes, we only throw things when you’re out of the room.”

“I’m remarkably content with that.”

Lancelot snorted. “And everything’s about you, isn’t it?”

“Jealous? Miss the attention?”

“Actually, I rather like not having people try to kill me in my sleep. But you always did love punishing yourself.”

Arthur merely snorted and said nothing, looking back to the group that was speeding up now that they’d sighted the castle. Within a few minutes a tired and worn-looking group of men was upon them, sad for all that under the grime they were probably important. If Lancelot was any good at judging the Britons’ signifiers of rank. And he thought he was. There were certain things that were common to many cultures, anyway, and gold tended to be among them.

“Greetings. We have come to see King Arthur.”

“Then you have accomplished your mission. I am he,” Arthur said, inspiring deference even in that simple statement. The man was _good_.

The newcomer realized his mistake and bowed instantly, shame coloring his cheeks. Young then.

“Forgive me. I am Bedevere, son of Gorlois of the Trinovantes, sent to join your Council in the common protection of Britain.” Such bravery there, Lancelot couldn’t help but smirk. Arthur’s look wasn’t nearly enough to chasten him.

Nothing was, to be true.

“I welcome you. You will be provided with chambers, of course. And your compatriots?”

One after the other stepped forward. “I am Geraint, son of Erbin of the Dumnonii…”

“I am Kay, son of Ectorious of the Cornovii…”

“I am Lamorak, son of Pellinore of the Coritani…”

“I am Gaheris, son of Lot of the Dalriada…”

Young men all, full of idealism and _life_ , here to protect something they loved. So like Arthur used to be, in a way.

Not an end, then. Not at all.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.

**Author's Note:**

> Selected Extended Historical Notes:
> 
> I conflated most of the northern tribes, just because there’s not a whole lot of info on them. I separated out the Dalriada, as they had close ties with the Irish, but the rest I just lumped in with the Woads.
> 
> As for the locations of the tribes, I primarily used tribes similar to those found on the Roman-Britain.org site. I generally used the larger tribes, as the smaller ones got swallowed over time, but I know this is imperfect. My goal was to give the sense that these people are different, are not as united as Guinevere made them seem in the movie. The Woads/Picts weren’t exactly the most popular of tribes and the movie oversimplified the idea of unification of such fundamentally different peoples.
> 
> Generally, the Ordovices/Demetae/Silures are in the western/Wales area. The Dumnonii were in Cornwall, the most southwestern area of the island. The southeast area was more Romanized, the north and northwest were not.
> 
> Similarly, Arthur here is basically the king chosen to lead their defense. The individual kings of each tribe would retain control of his tribe, but would send his sons to Arthur’s court and would help defend the island. This would be the comitatus model—a warrior band would choose their king, basically the best fighter. 
> 
> I set this in an abandoned hill fort, once fortified by the Romans. I didn’t want to keep it up at the Wall because it’s too far removed from the rest of the island, but it’s still in the north, at about the middle. I didn’t have a specific location in mind, just something central where he would be able to keep an eye on both the Woads and the unruly northwest without being too remote from the other tribes.
> 
> Most of the names are legitimate names that have been found on inscribed stones and they are plausible for the mid-fifth century. The exceptions are those names that come from Arthurian legend itself (some of which can be traced back to Welsh but some of which are French).
> 
> Conall Cremhthoinn was the son of Niall Noi nGiallach, though probably not the leader of the Clann Colmain. I took some liberties there, mainly because he died in the right timeframe and the annals are vague about his death.
> 
> Guinevere speaks of the leader of the Ordovices having an ancestor who was one of them. That was based on the story of Cunedda, a supposed military leader who came from the Edinburgh region, of the Votadini tribe, and who expelled the Irish from the Ordovicen area, later called Gwynedd. The story’s pretty historically suspect, though there is some meager archeological support. But I liked it. And there was also Irish influence in the west, which worked out nicely.
> 
> The Saxons weren’t invaders so much as immigrants. They were invited by the natives as their protectors and were given land for this service. Many settled and integrated into society. 
> 
> Native-made chests such as the one given to Arthur have been found. Some of the tribes had traditions of keeping and/or displaying the heads of their enemies. Merlin’s gift runs along those lines and would have been understood by the Britons if not exactly welcomed by Arthur.
> 
> I used the word ‘herald,’ even though I don’t particularly like the later medieval connotations of established kingship and a Court. But it’s a word that’s understood and hell, that’s how it’s translated in the Tain. /historical geekery


End file.
